


A Lingering Frost

by cynical21



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 05:37:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2138979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynical21/pseuds/cynical21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following <i>An Untimely Frost</i> - the end of the story</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Following the battle of Naboo and the defeat of the Sith apprentice, Anakin Skywalker returns to the Jedi Temple with his new Master, after spending several months in the city of Theed, at the invitation of Queen Amidala, as both the city - and the Jedi - recuperated from their damage at the hands of the Trade Federation and the Sith.
> 
> Almost six months have passed, and they have finally come back to Coruscant to begin their new lives together. All is going very, very well. Astonishingly well. Unbelievably well.
> 
> There are virtually no shadows in their lives.
> 
> As usual, Disney it is most definitely not.

Chapter One

Every day that goes by reaffirms my belief that our decisions were ultimately correct, that finding this treasure tucked deep into the sandy wastes of Tatooine was the will of the Force, that to refuse his training would have been the height of folly. For knowledge once learned can never be unlearned, and potential once unlocked cannot simply be willed into non-existence.

I sit and watch him, watch the raw power and unschooled abilities, and know that I am in the presence of a limitless strength that can barely be contained; it will require utmost skill and diligence to channel it and mold it, and direct it so that it can avoid the chasms of darkness that seem to decimate the landscapes of tomorrow. But I have every reason for renewed confidence now. There is no cause to fear the danger prophesied by some timid voices. Though a lingering weakness in my body, a holdover from the Sith-spawned battle in the Theed power station, precludes me from physically participating in his training, I choose his trainers with great deliberation; he will become a swordsman of astonishing skill in a very short time. He will be as gifted as . . . the best ever to take up a lightsaber within the halls of the Temple.

Despite the fact that the other students of his age have many years of training and a wealth of experience behind them, he has already surpassed the skill level of most of them, and, as I watch him leap and twist in the final fluid movements of the Thermal Currents kata, my heart is full and aches with pride. 

His athletic abilities are virtually unprecedented at his age, and his grasp of fundamental science and mathematics, indeed of all courses that are not of an abstract nature, is quite satisfactory. And if his comprehension of the more esoteric protocols - philosophy and the liberal arts - is not so complete or so facile as that of some others, it will all come in time. There is, after all, no rush, as he is still only nine years old.

He will learn it all, as time goes by. I will see to that. 

He will never be rejected, or left to his own devices, or made to doubt his place in my life or in the Order of the Jedi. He will know what he is meant to be and to do. He will be my greatest achievement, and the vindication for all who opposed his training.

He will silence all the clamoring voices.

And if I occasionally find that Master Yoda watches my apprentice with a supreme sadness in his eyes, or occasionally regards me with dark questions for which I can think of no answers, I choose to reinforce my determination and ignore the connotations.

Anakin Skywalker - my padawan. The Chosen One.

I confess that I am hard-put not to allow myself just the smallest trace of pride, although I know it is unseemly. The accomplishments, after all, will be his own - not mine.

Yet, I find that I cannot quite suppress a slight smugness in the knowledge that my name will forever be linked with his, that I will be remembered as the Master who trained the one who will grow to be the greatest Jedi of us all. Perhaps it is a concession to advancing age, for I can no longer pretend to possess the physical prowess of a young man; there is a stiffness in my body that no amount of exercise or meditation can ease, and I have lost the easy grace that I took for granted all my life. I find it ironic that the years, perhaps as a sort of cosmic joke, confer ambition even on those who have scoffed at it throughout their lives.

I know that it is unseemly, and sometimes, I can almost hear a sardonic voice laughing at my foolishness, but I somehow can't ever quite identify whose voice it is, even though some part of me is certain that it is a voice I should know.

Nevertheless, I allow myself this tiny conceit, content to know that my name will be remembered.

The mentor of the Chosen One - Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn.

* * * * * * * * *  
Anakin and I are enjoying the quarters set aside for us, larger and more spacious than those I once occupied, with a well-proportioned balcony from which we can observe planetary sunsets, which tend to be quite spectacular, and a small alcove that I use as an office. I really should make an effort to find out who among my friends here at the Temple was responsible for setting up these accommodations for us, and I will, someday. Whoever it was, I owe them a great debt of gratitude. After my lengthy convalescence following my injuries during the duel with the Sith, I was in no condition to manage transferring from one set of quarters to another, so it was a great relief to return here to find that it had all been handled for us. No one ever really asked me about it; they just took care of it, and I am suitably appreciative.

We arrived here just under two months ago, and I was pleased to note that all of my cherished possessions - such as they are - had made the move successfully: my antique books, a small collection of hand-hewn weapons, a few souvenirs gathered from missions across the galaxy, a few gifts from friends, especially a handful of items that were gifts from my beloved Tahl. I would have been devastated to have lost those. But they were all there. All had been transported with obvious care and arranged in my bedroom as I would have arranged them myself.

Of course, there were a few items that were apparently lost in the shuffle, and one day I will make the time to see if I can track them down, I suppose. But they were of little consequence, and I find that, most of the time, I can't even recall what they might have been. So perhaps it's best if I just forget them altogether. They are obviously not something that I need for my life - our lives - to be complete.

Anakin is more than content with the bedroom set aside for him, although I have given up on insisting that he maintain any semblance of order therein. The chamber is a virtual junkshop, filled with an incredible assortment of stray bits of machinery and electronics and droid parts and Force only knows what else. But he seems content there, and never loses anything really important, so I pretend not to notice. It is a tremendous departure from the state in which my former quarters were kept, but that was another time, another place, and has now become only a part of history, and history, I've discovered, is not so vital a part of our lives as I might once have believed.

My injuries still pain me, at times, but less so with every passing day, and the dreams have finally subsided. It is exceedingly rare now for me to waken in the night, gasping with a horrendous, molten pain in my chest, and staring at that black and crimson visage grinning down at me as I watch the beginning of the slash of that scarlet blade, the slash that would have ended my life - the slash that never came.

I rarely ever see it any more, and I have learned to channel my residual fears into the Force, though I admit that it took me quite a while to accomplish that.

Practicing what I have preached all my life, I am content to live in the moment, and to let that infamous day - that day when the Jedi discovered that the Sith were not quite so extinct as had been believed - remain in the past where it belongs.

The Force spoke that day, and its will was obeyed. By the will of the Force, I lived; others . . . didn't.

But there is nothing more to say or do about that, and nothing to be gained by reliving it. The past is dead and must remain so.

The last brave flares of the day are dying in the west now, as I lean forward against the balcony railing and smile down at my padawan, who is relating his account of a confrontation between Master Br'Hiawlo and a pack of Mandalorian deltafrogs, escaped from their bio-cages and scattering throughout the ecospheric laboratory in blind panic. He has a gift for mimicry, my Anakin, and, if his portrayal seems just a trifle mean-spirited, I remind myself that he is so very young, and his unconscious cruelty is common to all children. Of course, I notice, he does not specify the identity of the culprit who opened the cages in the first place.

A great lover of practical jokes, is my padawan, like others before him.

I am careful to conceal my smile, and to strengthen my mental shielding around that tiny little backwater place in my mind that wonders, occasionally, if some of the pranks he pulls don't stray just a fraction too close to true malice for his own good or my own complete peace of mind. But, again, I am comforted by the fact that he has many years to learn to curb his baser instincts.

And if others before him might have shared the same love for elaborate hoaxes, but with not the slightest trace of any suggestion of malevolence, that has absolutely no bearing on my convictions.

His face is quite lovely in the chiaroscuro of patterns cast by the ever-changing geometry of the lights of Coruscant's night sky, and his laughter is characteristic of every nine-year-old boy - loud, raucous, slightly strident.

I am looking forward to a pleasant dinner, an evening of relaxation and the solace of an hour of shared meditation, a solace I'm afraid my apprentice has not yet learned to share. But he will, with time.

A shrill electronic tone rises from the com-station, and I am tempted to ignore the signal. I suddenly have a bad feeling about this, but the habits of a lifetime die hard and I force myself to answer.

The stern visage that appears on the vidscreen confirms my misgivings.

It's very strange, I think, that Mace Windu should now be thought synonymous with frowns and stern disapproval; I remember when we were fellow students who shared a zest for life and a love for laughter.

I wonder what happened to him along the way, and I deliberately suppress a tiny little voice that asks the same question about me. Which is foolish, of course. There is absolutely nothing wrong with me.

"Good evening, Master Windu," I greet him. "What can I do for you?"

"Your presence is required before the Council, Master Qui-Gon." Stern notification. No trace of warmth or approval in the frosted voice.

"Now?" I ask, and that absolutely can not be a trace of a whine in my voice. "We were just going out to dine."

"Now." Cut and dried. No equivocation, no willingness to compromise.

I nod. "Very well. We'll be right there."

"Just you, Master Qui-Gon. Your padawan will not be required."

"But . . ."

"Ten minutes." And the connection is severed.

And, just as I knew it would, suspicion and uncertainty flare in my apprentice's eyes. Even after all these months, he is still consumed with distrust; he still believes, I think, that this is all an illusion, and that he will waken soon to find it all gone, vanished into dust and the sands of the Tatooine wastelands with the dawn of a new day.

"It's all right, padawan," I hasten to assure him. "I'm sure they simply have a question about some old mission report, and I'll be back soon. In the meantime, why don't you go along to the dining hall and have dinner with your friends. I'll join you there shortly."

He looks at me for a moment, and I am conscious of something that stirs and coils deep within his eyes, but it's gone almost before it registers, and he favors me with one of his brilliant smiles, forcing me to deliberately ignore my wretched little inner voice as it observes that such smiles could be used to conceal a multitude of sins. I am becoming a hardened cynic in my old age.

I firmly put such thoughts out of my head as I hurry through the wide sweep of the Temple's main corridor and take the primary elevator, the only one that delivers its passengers to the heights of the main Council chambers.

I feel a frisson of unease, for some reason, and then tell myself that I'm allowing my imagination to run away with me.

The Temple isn't really filled with an ominous silence; it's all in my head.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The fact that there is no one seated at the reception desk in the anteroom of the Council Chamber should have alerted me, but I am distracted, I suppose. Anakin is scheduled to begin a new round of classes just ten days from today, and I need to make sure that he is assigned to instructors who will understand and accommodate his needs. I am particularly concerned with the diversity between the two available classes on ethical theory.

One of the courses will be taught by Knight Diartué, a Bothan adept, renowned for her facility with languages and interpretations of subliminal messages; also renowned for intimidating intelligence and a refusal to tolerate any effort less than maximum. Her students, invariably, exit her class - virtually every day - pale and discomfited. However, it is common knowledge that, at the end of the term, those self-same students exit the course with a comprehensive knowledge of the subject. She is a harsh mistress; of that, there can be no doubt, but she is also scrupulously fair, honest to a fault, and extravagant with her approval for genuine effort. She was inordinately fond of . . . some of her previous students, students that neither asked for, nor expected any quarter in her relentless pursuit of their learning.

Students like . . .

The second class will be instructed by Master E'shimavi, who is a Rhodian of advanced age, who, in fact, was my first instructor in this subject. He is a being of great gentleness, inclined to contemplation, slightly befuddled at times, but possessed of a great, compassionate heart. Understandably, he's a great favorite with the students, many of whom count on his tendency to absent-mindedness and disorganization to allow them to bluff their way through his classes. Few of his students ever receive anything less than extremely good marks.

I suppress an urge to sigh, for I know perfectly well why this is true. As he has aged, Master E'shimavi has grown more absent-minded - and less demanding - and, while almost his entire class will complete the course with passing grades, few will have any real grasp of ethical logic.

Admission into his class, therefore, is much desired and is achieved on a first-come, first-served basis, unless, of course, one has some influence with the instructor, and Master E'shimavi always reserves a soft spot in his heart for former students and their padawans.

Therefore, once I finish with whatever foolishness the Council has in mind, I will pay a call on my much-loved old teacher, and ask him to make a place for my padawan. Though some might argue that, as the Chosen One, Anakin should be able and willing to hold his own in the more rigorous of the two classes, those who would say so do not know him as I know him. It is far more important to reassure him of his place among the Jedi, to bolster his confidence in his abilities and avoid any hint of negativity, than to insist that he absorb such complex, abstract principles when, just months ago, the only ethics he concerned himself with were those necessary for staying alive and intact in the noxious belly of slavery that existed on his native world.

I will not have him browbeaten, or cornered, or forced to concede any semblance of inferiority; his spirit is entirely too fragile to require him to deal with any of that.

There will be time for overcoming such obstacles later, as he is still very much the young child we - I - found on Tatooine.

I allow an image of Master E'shimavi to form in my mind and smile to envision his gentle response to the quicksilver loveliness of my padawan. I remember how the elderly Rhodian was overcome with tender laughter at the last Winter Festival celebration, when a group of senior padawans - acting more under the influence of mulled wine than common sense - attempted to climb the monstrous jolliarcia tree in the center of the meditation gardens, disregarding entirely the fact that planetary weather control, in a tradition as old as the festival itself, had programmed in a few days of true winter, and the huge tree, consequently, was crusted and slick with ice.

Skilled manipulation of the Force by indulgent Masters avoided the worst of the dire consequences that might have developed from the attempt, but there were gales of breathless laughter as throngs of young Jedi slipped and slid and collided and knocked each other down and found themselves upended, bedraggled, and bamboozled, until one doggedly determined padawan, flushed with exertion and beaming with triumph, ginger braid snaking down across his shoulder, sea-green eyes alight with exhilaration, actually made it to the upper branches of the tree - one exquisitely beautiful padawan who . . . .

I barrel through the double doors into the chamber proper, and pause to find the circular room deep in shadow, the only light falling from tiny flame-shaped bulbs fitted into delicate pierced metal sconces that bracket the towering windows arranged equidistantly around the walls. It is certainly bright enough to navigate by, to avoid pitfalls and obstacles, but it does little to repel the shadows that cling to the dark patterned stone of the floors or the spaces behind the circle of chairs.

Not a full council session, then. Not by any means, as most of the chairs are empty, and the silence is deep and full, and filled with a foreboding I cannot quite ignore.

"Masters?" I hate it that there is an echo of uncertainty, and maybe just a bit more, in my voice.

"Come in, Master Qui-Gon." Mace's voice has not warmed one iota since our last conversation.

I move to the exact center of the room, and bow, but only slightly. There are intimations here, in the room, that feel wrong somehow. I find that I have no taste for this moment, or for the heaviness I sense around me.

"Has something happened?" I ask finally, knowing before I ask that the question is wrong, is not the one I should have asked.

There is a deep sigh, and it would take more than darkness to prevent me from recognizing the source, as a small figure moves forward, stopping at the very edge of a pale ring of illumination, allowing a luminescence that seems almost sentient to pool in huge, citrus eyes.

"Nothing has happened, Master Qui-Gon," says Yoda, sounding somehow as if he is feeling every single one of his eight hundred - odd years. "Nothing new. But to the Council, a question has been put. A question that you alone can answer."

"I don't understand," I reply, sensing now that there are others standing in the shadows, just beyond the pallid light.

Yoda moves forward again, leaning heavily on his gimmer stick and pauses to look up at me, and I am almost undone by the depth of sadness I see in his eyes. But he offers me no hint of its cause, no single word to provide me with a path to enlightenment.

I am suddenly stricken with a tremendously powerful urge to back away from this moment, to plunge through the massive doors which are at my back, and race away from these faces, from this hour, from this shadow that is looming up before me.

But I am a Jedi Master; I do not run away - from anything.

"Sit, you will," says Master Yoda, gesturing abruptly toward the large throne-like chair usually occupied by Master Ki-Adi-Mundi.

"I prefer to stand," I reply, and I'm startled by the frigid quality of my voice.

Yoda merely turns to stare at me. "Sit, you will," he repeats. "This night, to you, a petition is to be presented."

"Sit down, Qui-Gon." I sigh softly, somehow relieved to find that lovely Master Adi Gallia is here too, that I am not alone at the mercy of tiny Yoda, who cares more for justice than compassion and Mace Windu, who has looked at me of late as if we had never been friends or companions.

Am I afraid? That's nonsense, of course. I have stood in this very room, countless times over the years, and, as often as not, defied the full Council, justifying my actions by claiming an intimate acquaintance with the will of the Force, much to the chagrin of friends and . . . others.

I refuse to give in to any silly nuance of fear now. I am not afraid, and I arrange myself on Master Mundi's chair with exaggerated care. "I hope this won't take long," I grouse. "I have much to do, and no time for games."

Something in the shadows behind me cringes away from the impatience so flagrant in my words, and I am suddenly awash in emotions that flare and spark within the framework of the Force, before being swiftly and brutally suppressed.

I refuse to allow myself to react, although deep within me, there is a voice that cries out to offer comfort and solace. I don't know the source of those emotions, or what caused them, but I know pain when I feel it, and there is a great, bottomless, searing pain nearby.

It's not my pain; that's what I keep repeating to myself, until it becomes as meaningless as a mantra - a collection of babbled syllables, signifying nothing.

Yoda and Mace and Adi have retired now to their customary places, and a small group of figures moves forward out of the shadows. Three figures, to be exact, with two more lingering behind them, as if to offer support if needed but to offer no interference in what is to come.

I know who they are, before I can actually distinguish their features. I know who they are and realize that I have been expecting this moment for a very long time. Have been expecting it, without ever having prepared for it.

They have a question, for which I have no answers. Or, at least, not the answers they will wish to hear.

Senior padawans all, and beautiful in their freshness and purity. As beautiful as _he_ was.

"Your petition, you will present," Yoda intones softly, and though he does not offer them a smile, his tone is almost a benediction.

Abruptly, I stand and whirl to walk away. "I have no time . . ."

"Time" snaps the tiny Master, in a tone that brooks no dispute, "you will make. A right to be heard, they have, despite the impertinence of their actions."

Helpless and telling myself that I'm not - can't be - fighting panic, I collapse back into the deep plush of the chair, and study the patterns of the mosaic tile of the floor, thinking of a thousand things, praying for a distraction - an interruption, a planetquake, a Sith attack - anything. Anything except what comes next.

Ciara Barosse has grown up, has become a creature of exquisite beauty. Which is hardly surprising. She has always been exceedingly beautiful, and I am reminded of the times she spent with childhood friends, and how achingly lovely they all were together.

When she steps forward and prostrates herself before me, and I read the shimmer of tears in her luminous eyes, I am almost undone. Almost.

"Master Jinn," she says softly, speaking around a throat that can barely produce a sound through the thickness of her grief, "I . . . we . . . meaning myself, Padawan Bant Eerin, and Padawan Garen Muln, acknowledge that our actions here exceed our mandate as senior padawans, that we are acting outside the acceptable parameters of behavior for Jedi apprentices, and that we will accept any punishment either you or the Council - or both - deem appropriate, without protest."

She looks up at me, and I am stunned by the resolve in her eyes. "Up to and including expulsion from the Order. We recognize the gravity of our transgression, and are prepared to suffer the consequences of our actions."

She pauses, and I look past her, to find Bant's eyes, extremely large as is true of most Mon Calamarians, glossy with tears, but steady and focused directly on me. And beyond her, I see Garen, and I am instantly aware that, although he has agreed to follow Ciara's lead and to accept any punishment that might be dished out, he is also simmering with barely controlled rage. I get the distinct impression that, if Garen Muln is to be sentenced harshly for his participation in the events of this evening, he intends to make certain he extracts justice in equal measure.

"What is it that you want of me?" I ask finally, sternly, unswayed by either tears or thinly-disguised anger.

She stares up at me for a moment, as if considering her words carefully, and, when she begins to speak, it's almost as if she is speaking more to herself than to anyone else, as if she's musing aloud.

"At first, in the beginning, we thought it was just an oversight, just a consequence of all the uproar that happened after Naboo and the actions of the Trade Federation."

She speaks in fits and starts, pausing often and fighting for control. "And every month, we'd go together, and we'd stand and stare at the monument, and tell each other, 'It's got to be there. We're just missing it.' But, in the end, we had to admit the truth. We didn't miss it; it just wasn't there."

She looks up now, and makes no attempt to wipe away the tears that have welled and run freely down her cheeks. "It still isn't there, and it's almost six months now, Master Jinn. Six months, and Obi-Wan's name has never been added to the list of honored Jedi who have fallen in battle.

"You made your report to the Council about what happened that day in Theed, and you sealed it, so that none can see it. It's classified at a level unavailable to any but Council members. And, in six months, there's been no memorial service, no official period of mourning. There's been nothing."

I find that I cannot look at her any more and focus my vision on the darkness beyond the towering windows. "We know it isn't our place to ask. Mourning - or honors - can only be initiated by the Master of a fallen padawan, but . . . he was our brother, Master Jinn, as much a brother as any of us will ever have, and we. . . we're not even sure that he's dead, because no one will tell us. No one mentions his name. It's as if he never lived, and there's only one way that something like that happens. If he . . . fell to the dark . . ."

I can _not_ listen to this, and I rise abruptly, moving away from the girl's tear-filled eyes and breaking voice. I can _not_. . .

"Answer, you will!" Master Yoda seldom uses the power of his voice, but he's using it now, and I am compelled to stop where I stand and feel the strength of his will move through me.

"Please, Master Jinn." The girl is openly sobbing now. "Please tell us just this much. Is Obi-Wan dead?"

"I can't . . ." I'm trying to answer, trying to form a rational response, but . . .

I sense that Master Yoda has left his seat and is moving forward toward the distraught young woman, compassion radiating around him that is so palpable it is almost visible.

"Dead, he is, Padawan," he says, with infinite gentleness.

Ciara seems to freeze for a moment, then feels the soft grasp of tender arms as Padawan Erin settles beside her, and they console each other, weeping softly.

But Garen Muln finds no such release, no such ease.

He stares at me, and I am hard-put to confront the contempt I read in his face. "I did not require your confirmation," he says slowly, biting his words off with great care. "I felt him die. And I felt what was in his heart just before the end."

He steps forward until we are almost nose-to-nose, and I am somehow surprised to note that he has grown to a height almost equal to my own. How very strange! I wonder when that happened. "Does that surprise you, Master Jinn? I perceive that it does, that you had no idea that he and I shared a link. But that's hardly surprising, is it? How many other things are there, do you suppose, that you didn't know about your padawan? How many things that you couldn't be bothered to discover?"

"I don't have time for this," I say firmly, moving away.

"Did you know," he says softly, wearily, "that he knew he was going to die out there?"

And I am stopped - cold - gripped with icy fingers that clutch and abrade my heart. "No."

"Padawan," said Mace Windu softly, appealing perhaps for discretion.

But young Muln is far beyond discretion, even far beyond rage. He is, instead, in the grip of something much, much stronger, virtually irresistible. He has surrendered to a ravenous hunger - for justice.

"He came to see me," he continues now, each word like a nail driven deep into my consciousness, "the night before you went back to Naboo. Oh, he didn't say it in so many words, and, like the blind fool I am, I didn't figure it out until later. Until too late. He said he'd been waiting for five years for this moment, that it was time to let destiny take its course."

And the young man looks up at me, and, beneath the bitterness, I see the agony, the sense of helplessness and regret, the question for which he will never find an answer, the suspicion that he might have been able to stop it, if he had only acted soon enough. "He said that he had failed you for the last time."

And the tears rise now, blinding the apprentice and twisting the dagger that is buried deep in his own soul. "Do you understand that, Master Jinn? To the bitter end, he believed that he had failed you, that he had never lived up to what you wanted him to be."

Garen steps back, lost in a darkness that has nothing to do with an absence of physical light. "So he gave you his final gift, Master Jinn." His voice is hoarse now, as if he is almost beyond speaking. "He gave you . . . your precious Chosen One, and the life in which to train him."

He looks at me once more, and I think I will never forget the awful certainty I see in his eyes. "Our link wasn't strong enough to show me the manner of his death, but I knew what was in his heart. He died - so you would live."

The silence is almost groaning under the weight of the emotions that are building in the chamber.

"Do you deny it?" His voice is like a whip now, flicking at me, cutting me to the bone.

I am lost in the darkness beyond the windows.

"Do you deny it?" he repeats, sharper, deeper, angrier.

And I reach for the Force, and find it distant and unreachable.

_"Answer me, damn you!_ Do you deny it?"

I turn to face them, all of them, and know that they are torn between wanting to hear it confirmed, and not wanting to believe that a Jedi Master could possibly turn his back on such an act of sacrifice.

I move toward the doors, and this time, no one moves to stop me, but I stop myself, just before making my exit.

I do not turn back to face them; I cannot.

And I am suddenly quite amazed at how old my voice has become in such a short time.

I open the door and brace myself against its massive weight.

"I deny nothing."

Behind me, there is only the groaning silence, pierced by the sound of broken weeping.

Before me, I see only darkness.

* * * * * *

When I left the Council Chamber, I was moving very quickly; when I leave the elevator, I do so at a Force-enhanced sprint, and accelerate immediately to maximum speed. It amuses me, and surprises me just a bit, to note that I don't know exactly why I'm running. I'm certainly not running away; Jedi Masters, after all, do not run from anything. It is also a bit strange that I have no real idea of where I'm going, but that seems less important, the where ultimately mattering less than the why.

And I suddenly begin to feel a heaviness within my chest, a heaviness that I know has nothing to do with my physical exertions or any other external cause, a heaviness that is rising from deep within myself.

A heaviness I will _not_ be forced to confront.

I cast out with my feelings, reaching for some tangible, plausible handhold, something to allow me to avoid whatever it is that stalks my steps so relentlessly, and I find . . . my padawan. My wonderful, gifted, confident padawan, who may sometimes question the attitude and acceptance of his fellow Jedi, but who never doubts his own powers and abilities - unlike others, in the past. 

He is in the company of a group of friends, and it is the work of a moment for me to slip past his surface shielding and test the quality of his mood, all without raising any suggestion of an alarm in his mind. He is the Chosen One; of that, I have no doubt, but he is also only nine years old, and it will be many years before he can hold his own in shielding against a Jedi Master. He is enjoying himself, and I take just a fraction of a second to peer through his eyes, to see what he sees and feel what he feels. Something has spurred a bout of his infectious laughter, although it seems his companions are considerably less amused, but there is a lovely spontaneity in his hilarity and a complete lack of self-consciousness. When Anakin laughs, he cares little if anyone else understands the joke.

I catch a quick, kaleidoscopic glance of a couple of small, piquant faces with huge stricken eyes, but the images are nonsensical, lacking resolution and relevance, and I quickly push them from my mind.

I am moving like the winds now, the ubiquitous, relentless winds that swirl around the upper levels of the soaring towers, and I am grateful that the lateness of the hour has caused this corridor to be virtually deserted, meaning that my furious passage goes unchallenged. Even the few Jedi that I do encounter are more non-plussed than perturbed by my somewhat unorthodox sprint through halls more commonly awash with somnolence than haste. There is, of course, no emotion; there is serenity. And I make a conscious decision to ignore the faint trace of bitterness that threads through the words as they rise in my mind.

The serenity is still here, of course; centuries of Jedi tranquility will not be vanquished by the dash of one distraught Jedi Master, but I cannot reach it. Nor do I even try.

And when, I ask myself now, did I admit that I am distraught?

Seized by a roiling impatience, I decide abruptly that it is not the sterility of the corridors that I need to help me soothe whatever it is within me that requires soothing; I require something elsewhere and elsewise. Something different; something . . . living.

My stride lengthens and grows even faster, as I turn to seek the gardens that grace some portion of every upper floor of the Jedi Temple. I am ashamed to note that my mind has wandered during my run so that I am no longer quite sure which of the many gardens are nearest at hand. But it matters little; I need to feel the warm caress of soil under my feet and the cool stroke of foliage against my skin, to hear the gentle voice of water tumbling into a crystal pool, or the song of a nightbird, raised in supplication to the warm presence of the night.

Through the doors now and the richness of the Force reaches for me, welcoming me, telling me that I have come home, and that it is past time. I pause and feel the sweetness of being enfolded and comforted and hear a whisper of invitation - a voiceless urge to move deeper into the blanket of Force energy.

It is beyond my power to resist, but I move slowly now; the driving power that brought me to this place seems to have dissipated, leaving me shaken and diminished somehow.

This is not a garden I remember, which is a bit strange. Not that I know all of the Jedi gardens; there are far too many for any among us to know them all intimately, but, despite my rather unruly dash through the halls, I did not travel very far, so this area can hardly be termed remote. 

It is a pleasant enough place, featuring curving paths surfaced with tiny, polished pebbles, winding among a thicket of trees with soft, pendulant foliage, with a stream gurgling in the undergrowth. The ground around the footpaths is strewn with tiny star-shaped wildflowers, touched with silver by the liquid light of Coruscant's primary moon, and a scent like crushed mint lingers on the gentle air currents.

Nearby, I sense, there is a nook or an alcove, a place with a tiny reflecting pool in which the moon's image lies placid and seamless, a place thick and vibrant with the Force, a place . . . 

I push my way through thick strands of foliage, and it lies before me. And my heart shudders within my chest and threatens to smother me as reality flexes, and the vision laid out for my eyes seems to shatter, before coalescing into . . . something else.

_He is so achingly young and still has much to learn of the ways of the Force, but he is determined. Of that, there can be no doubt. He has succeeded in banishing his youthful tendency to fidget; succeeded in refusing to bounce or twitch or twist or twiddle; succeeded in slowing his breathing, the flutter of his eyelids, the beat of his heart. He is breathtaking in his innocence and in the purity of his desires. Slowly, oh, so very slowly, he allows his eyes to open, auburn lashes thick and spiky sweeping upward to reveal eyes with no single trace of shadow, eyes as bright and crystalline as the glacial waters of the Sanctuary Moon. His hands trail just beneath the surface of the pool, in water as pure as his heart, but as opaque as a mirror, dark as midnight and impervious to both the gaze of his eyes and the vision of the Force._

_He can sense nothing; command nothing; control nothing. He can only wait and offer himself to whatever awaits him. He does not reach for the Force; he waits to learn if it will reach for him._

_He has become a part of what is natural to this place, an extension of the life force that lingers and breathes here._

_Time has no meaning for him, and I am initially amazed. I had not believed he could do it, not yet, for he is still so young - too young to be able to negate completely the sense of self, to be able to join with the things that form the natural ambiance of this tiny garden spot._

_He is fourteen years old._

_But there can be no denial, as my eyes fall to the glassy surface of the pool, and detect the tell-tale ripples._

_My padawan has succeeded in calling forth the Tri'Essepialle, and not just one, but two of them._

_They are small and sleek and not terribly impressive in a strictly physical sense, slender, oblong bodies clothed in fine scales of opalescence with streaks of emerald and citrine and bulbous eyes of perfect ebony, but they are among the most sensitive of non-sentient Force users and they are sometimes referred to as the snobs of the Force-enhanced universe for they are notoriously reticent to answer the call of those considered beneath their notice, a call that consists of nothing more than the lowering of all defenses and displaying a willingness to be subjected to judgment._

_He has done what many Jedi Masters have never been able to do._

_The two fish - instead of simply bumping at his hands and darting away, as is the wont of others of their kind - not only nudge his fingers but, to my total astonishment, allow him to lean forward and stroke their delicate fins with one gentle finger_

_It is said - more as the stuff of myth than any real claim to truth - that the Tri'Essepialle answer only to souls of sufficient purity. I have never believed it to be anything more than a sentimental conceit. Now, I begin to wonder._

_He looks up at me, and I can see that he has no idea how singular this achievement is; all he knows is his own delight in the lovely patterns of light that the Force is weaving around him as he responds to the moment with soft laughter._

_And I feel my breath catch in my throat as I realize what a wonder my padawan truly is, and how blessed within the Force, which swells in harmony around him._

_He is . . ._

I twist away from the sight of the little pool, recognizing belatedly that I have come, finally, to a place I have no desire to be, a place too thick with ghosts.

It is the Discovery Garden, so called because it teems with tiny, unexpected treasures which do not, at first glance, leap up and grab the attention of the visitor. Instead, it is packed with wonders that must be sought and revealed through a progressive connection with the Force.

It is a place beloved by all Jedi initiates, and cherished in particular because they are allowed to visit only once or twice a year and only in groups of two or three, for it is a series of delicate ecosystems, preserved and perpetuated for the enjoyment of young and old, but protected from the depradations of tiny fingers and the excesses of boundless enthusiasm.

It is a place sometimes beloved by older padawans, for it is rich and textured with Force energy, and, as I was once told, sometimes it sings, to those sufficiently motivated to listen.

Blindly, I push my way through a thick coniferous hedge and am almost overwhelmed as I am once more impaled on a shard of memory.

It is a tiny clearing, with a trickle of water falling from stone to stone in a small cascade that provides a rhythmic cadence for the whisper of the night wind. Off to my left, there is a rough-surfaced stone wall, cracked and abraded and threaded with tunnels, and draped with lush vines of glossy, succulent foliage. Surrounding the clearing is a stand of the short, stubby, multi-trunked marillion trees that once grew wild on Coruscant, when Coruscant was still a planet where living things occurred naturally. Now, of course, the vigorous trees, with their strong, stocky branches, grow only in enclaves and gardens like this one. They occur naturally no more, no where.

I peer into the deep shadows where the fanwork of branches join the barkless trunk, and see the flash of eyes, quickly concealed.

Oh, yes. I know this place, all too well. 

The jelly-coats live here.

Once, there were seven of them; now, I sense only two, and I am saddened to realize that soon, there will be none.

They are the last of their kind, and I am reminded of a remark once made - by someone - that the task of preserving the final members of a species is not a happy one.

Jelly-coats. So called because he couldn't say j'helia cohoxts. He had, after all, only been four years old at the time.

I try to turn away from the vision forming before me; I try not to see it, but it forms anyway. Memory is no respecter, it seems, of the will of a Jedi Master.

The j'helia cohoxts are a feline species, native to the third moon of Surundi Prime, a volcanic planetoid that destroyed itself in violent tectonic upheavals some forty cycles ago. The tiny creatures, small enough when mature for four of them to fit comfortably in my hand, were spared the fate of others of their kind by virtue of the fact that they happened to be exploring the hold of the last evac ship to leave the surface, prior to the final devastating quake that exposed the moon's core, and reduced it to rubble. The spacers who later discovered the badly frightened felines concluded that Fate must surely have taken a hand in preserving the small lives, and who were they to argue with Fate?

The Jedi had been happy to accept responsibility for preserving the species, a responsibility that, ultimately, would prove to be impossible to live up to. The j'helia cohoxts rescued from the evac ship - seven of them - all proved to be sterile, a factor, thought Jedi biologists, resulting from the destruction of the eco-system that had spawned them.

So it was no less than perfect truth to proclaim them the last of their kind.

For such small creatures, they were remarkably long-lived, but nothing lives forever, and I sense now that the time draws near.

They will not approach me, of course for these small entities - with fur the color of cream, striped or streaked or dappled with soft gray-blue, with ears that are long and silky and perk straight up at moments of alarm or excitement, with angular eyes of a pure, crystalline blue threaded with aquamarine, and long, slightly curled tails that are moderately prehensile - are so timid, so distrustful of the unknown, that their attitude borders on paranoia.

Which makes it truly remarkable that - once in a while, for reasons known only to the j'helia cohoxts - someone is chosen, is singled out for their devotion.

I do _not_ want to remember this.

But there is no way to stop it. 

_Short, chubby legs on a short, chubby body. A grubby face, a smile that would put sunlight to shame, and eyes - eyes that no one would ever really succeed in describing._

_The child ventures into the small clearing where I am sitting. The j'helia cohoxts are hiding themselves, of course, as is their wont, peering at me from the depths of the warren which had been constructed for them, or from beneath thick, glossy foliage, their eyes bright with wariness, ears upright. I am not particularly thrilled with the new arrival; it is a dark time of my life, and I am deep in moody contemplation of the cruel jests often perpetrated by destiny._

_I am not happy to see him, although even now, in the depths of my general malaise, some part of my grumpy soul recognizes a beauty that would grow and flourish and become luminescent over time._

_Huge, thick-lashed eyes look up at me, and a grubby thumb is removed from a cupid's bow mouth with an almost audible pop. "Hi." There is a measure of reserve in the tone - and in the face - but no fear._

_"Hello, Little One," I manage to reply. "Are you supposed to be here alone?"_

_"I'm not alone," he answers, perfectly logical. "You're here."_

_I am forced to suppress an urge to smile. "Are you lost?" I ask finally._

_He shakes his head. "Lookin' for jelly-coats," he says firmly, eyes wide and sweeping around the clearing._

_"The j'helia cohoxts," I reply, somewhat sternly, "do not like strangers. They will not . . ."_

_I stop, and I'm certain the astonishment in my own eyes would be worthy of comment, if anyone were around to notice it._

_The child, of course, cares not at all, as the tiny felinoids creep forward from their various hiding places and cluster at his feet. When he collapses, rather abruptly, to his well-padded little bottom, the little creatures - the jelly-coats - swarm all over him, and he is quickly reduced to a mass of squirming giggles._

_Moments later, a creche Master comes racing into the clearing, in hot pursuit of the little wanderer, and stops cold, joining me in open-mouthed wonder._

_I never saw it happen with anyone else, although I'm told that it did, occasionally._

It was not, as I at first believed, a one-time aberration. Until he was twenty-five years old, until he was . . . no longer able to come here, he visited this garden regularly, and the jelly-coats greeted him with love and caresses every single time, as if he were one of their own.

And he never did learn to pronounce their name, or maybe the mispronunciation developed into a strange kind of security blanket, something he clung to, something that brought comfort, when so many other things didn't.

Most of the jelly-coats are gone now, as he . . .

No. No.

I plunge back in the direction from which I came, and find myself cornered, and close my eyes to conceal any glints of anger that might be revealed in my eyes. I have no doubt that the glints are there, and I know beyond all doubt that there is little point in trying to release my emotions into the Force. This night is still too young, and there will be more - much more - before I am allowed to walk away. 

An inquisition is beginning, and, if I am not very careful, a crucifixion may well follow.

Master Yoda stands in the open doorway, the only access to the Temple's interior, and he is not alone. 

Someone, someone I should remember, but can't - quite - once had a fondness for old-fashioned holovids in which the law-abiding forces of good would band together to defeat the dark lords of evil, and the groups who would ride together in search of justice were always called 'posses'. I have no idea why, and neither did he; just a bit of arcane trivia, I suppose. But I have no doubt that what confronts me now is a version of that self-same phenomenon, a group that believes it comes together to promote the greater good, but a group which, given the chance, will destroy me and my padawan.

I cannot allow it, of course. For myself, I care little, but he is too important, and he has only me to stand between him and the ruin they would rain upon him.

"Continue to run, you may not," says the eldest of the Jedi Masters, he for whom the Force is as much intimate companion as source of energy. "Time, you have been given, too much time, perhaps. And still nothing do you resolve."

I move forward, wrapping my dignity and a cold determination, around my heart. "I have no time to spare for sentimental nonsense."

Yoda's eyes widen, and I ignore the flare of anguish I read within them. "No longer can we avoid this," he says firmly. "Contacted by the Drimulan government, we have been, requesting enlightenment. Respectful and diplomatic was their inquiry, but a demand for information it was, no matter how politely phrased."

"What has that to do with me?" I have no intention of becoming a part of this travesty. 

"An officially decorated hero of the Drimulan Federation was he, and an honorary citizen. Within their rights, they are, to request disclosure, and, if no information is forthcoming from us, prepared are they to take their petition to the Senate and demand a formal investigation."

Now, finally, I feel my heart and breath seize up within me. Premature disclosure of the information about the Sith and their reappearance in the galaxy would be hugely damaging to the ongoing Jedi investigation. To allow such disclosure simply to satisfy the curiosity of a primitive, backwater world would be the height of folly and would change nothing, of course. The dead . . . would still be dead. 

My response is stern and logical, and I don't know why it feels so wrong, when it is obviously so right. "The Drimulans must be persuaded to withdraw their demands, for the good of the Republic, and the Jedi."

Another figure steps forward, and I am startled to realize that he has been standing there in the deep shadows near the doorway for some time, silent, brooding - and measuring me against . . . something.

Master Ramal Dyprio - Corellian Jedi and Master to Padawan Ciara Barosse - and not known for his fondness for me. His look is sardonic now. "Come now, Master Jinn. You do remember Arain Fer'mia, don't you? And how he felt about your apprentice? Would you like to be the one to try to convince him to change his mind and shut his mouth?"

"If he is made to understand . . ."

"I don't think," he says slowly, "understanding is his strong suit. Justice is more to his taste."

"Justice?" I find that the word tastes bitter in my mouth. "Is that what you all think this is about? Justice? From the very beginning, you've all resented my Anakin, all wanted to abandon him, because he was better and brighter and more . . ."

Ramal Dyprio moves forward with all the dynamism and strength of a true Master, and I see the gleam of fury flare in his dark eyes. He stops directly before me, and I see that his hands are clenched so tightly the knuckles are white. "Careful, Jinn," he says, very softly. "I have refrained from seeking you out to" . . . he smiles, but there is no warmth in it . . . "settle this matter between us only because of my concerns for my padawan, and my respect for yours, but take care, for I have been pushed to my limit, and almost beyond."

"Enough," says Master Yoda. "Squabbling Jedi, I will not have."

"Then end this travesty," I snap, not bothering to suppress the outrage threading through my voice.

"Intend to, I do," replies the tiny Master, and I realize abruptly that I have only added fuel to the flames that seek to consume me as he looks up at me and continues to speak. "Months, we have waited, in the hope that you would come forward, and complete your duty. The Temple healers insisted, for many weeks, that it would all come back to you, and you would be compelled to act. Wrong, they were, and, perhaps, wrong were we all."

He steps closer and looks up into my eyes. "Do you remember what happened, Master Qui-Gon? On Naboo, in the power station, do you remember?"

I back away from him, discomfited by the clarity of his vision. "I'm hardly an idiot, Master. Of course, I remember."

There are several small stones arranged beside the path on which we stand, and he moves to take a seat on one of them before looking up at me, completely calm and unperturbed. "Very well then. Tell me, you will."

"What?" I'm not sure what I expected, but it wasn't this.

"Obi-Wan's death," he says softly, "you will describe for me."

"It's all in my report," I say brusquely, and turn away, to gaze off into the night.

"Not all," he replies, and I am struck by the quality of weariness in his voice. "Told us the how, you did, but not the why, and not what the Force said to you."

"That's not . . . important," I manage to respond, without a noticeable tremor in my voice.

"Look at me, you will!" The voice is still soft, but there is steel in it, and I turn back to him, albeit reluctantly. "Betrayed you, did he?"

"What?" I am stung by his words, and by the ice in his tone.

"Failed you? Betrayed you? Disappointed you? Was a coward, perhaps? Did he run away, or was he so inept that you were sickened by what he did?"

My fingers clench tightly as I feel a tightness form in my chest, something that makes breath seem impossible. "No. Of course not."

"Cried, did he? Begged the Sith for mercy, perhaps? Offered himself up to save his own life?"

"No." The pressure within me is growing unbearable.

"No?" The venerable Master continues to press, offering no quarter. "Then perhaps, a pathetic warrior, he was. Failed the Jedi, did he?"

"No, he . . . ."

The huge, glistening eyes impale me now, and I cannot look away.

"Then why have you never mourned him, Qui-Gon? Why have you never allowed anyone else to mourn him?"

I feel the swelling darkness within me, and I find that I want to provide an answer - would provide an answer - if I had one. I settle to my knees, but I still have nothing to say.

I push my fingers into the thick layer of pebbles that form the pathway and watch as pale glimmers of moonlight coruscate against my hands. I am still looking downward, determined to focus on nothing, when a shadow falls over me, and a small box is laid before me. A battered box that has seen better days, a box that I have seen before and have no wish to see again.

I begin to rise, but a wave of Force energy sends me back to my knees, and I know that only one among us has the power to prevent me from rising.

"Open it, you will."

I glance up then, and see Ciara staring down at me with wounded, swollen eyes.

"He came to see each of us that night, Master Jinn," she says, barely audible. "We didn't know it at the time, but he came to say good-bye - to each of us."

She raises her hands and scrubs at her face, as if she would rub away the exhaustion that obviously grips her. "I took this from his room, when I knew he wasn't coming back. I thought you wouldn't want it and I wanted someone to keep something, to remember him by. But I was wrong; it belongs to you. Just as everything he was, everything he ever cared about, belonged to you."

Her eyes grow darker as she draws a deep breath. "You created the ultimate dichotomy, Master Jinn, the perfect padawan, who believed he was irrevocably flawed, which raises the question of whether the one could have existed - without the other."

"I can't do this," I murmur finally, as my fingers, of their own volition, caress the box cover.

Ciara's voice changes abruptly, and, for the first time, I hear the rage that consumes her, as it consumes us all. "You never even asked about it. The least you can do is look inside. It's not much to mark a lifetime, but it's all there is."

I look up again and see the circle of faces regarding me, with emotions that run the gamut from desolation to defiance, from helplessness to hatred. There is young Garen, struggling to maintain a calm that is all too fragile; both Ciara and Bant are obviously wounded, and just as obviously confused and uncertain. Ramal Dyprio makes little effort to disguise his antipathy, but he is a Jedi Master, and will behave accordingly. Mace Windu and Adi Gallia have assumed support positions; neither will contribute anything to the proceedings unless they are compelled to do so. And, of course, there is our resident troll, whose ancient visage radiates compassion as it demands compliance.

With a deep breath and a glare of defiance that none could possibly misinterpret, I flip the cover off the box, and feel everything within me - every certainty I have ever had, every trace of composure, simply drain away, and I am empty, and echoing, and lost.

There are several items within the box, but, for the moment, only one has any meaning. Only one that he carried with him everywhere he went, everywhere, for over twelve years.The one item he would never have left behind, no matter what. Unless . . . unless . . . 

I turn my face toward the eldest of the Jedi Masters, seeking an answer in his eyes. "He left his river stone behind."

"Yes."

"He never left it behind. Never."

"No, he did not."

I find that I can barely ask the question. "Did he . . . did he - know?"

"Answer that, I cannot," Master Yoda says, with great regret. "Break my vows, I will not. But require an answer, you do not. The truth, you know, Qui-Gon. The truth, you have always known. And when you see it, the rest I will disclose for you."

"No," I answer, trying to breathe. "No, I couldn't. Why would I . . ."

"What the mind cannot endure, it evades," says Master Adi gently.

I take the small stone into my huge hand, and feel its warmth, and feel . . . oh, gods . . . I feel . . .

Him, in my mind, in my heart, in my soul. Where he should be. Where he always was. Where he is - no more.

And I have no strength any more, no resistance to the tidal wave of truth that washes over me, as my hand paws through the scruffy box, and pulls out a small, clothbound book - faded and stained - and I remember it. 

My Obi-Wan, with the heart of a warrior and the soul of a poet, embarrassed by his love of verse and the efforts he called his 'worthless scribbling'.

I open the tattered book, and find the words within fading with age, but still legible.

Some of the poems are no more than soft musings; some are bright couplets. Most are very short. He called it 'minimalist verse'. I don't know what that means; I only know that the words are like daggers, digging and twisting in my heart.

I can barely see them, barely conceive of their meaning, for my mind reels with the power of sudden knowledge.

_For those too weak, too frail, too small, too lost,  
For those who cannot, I can._

"He knew." The admission is torn from me, and I know now that I always knew it, that I saw it in his eyes, and heard it in my mind, and felt it in my heart, on that fateful day. "He knew, and he died for me."

And I run a trembling finger down the page, and find another brief entry. This one is titled. 

It says simply, "My Master."

_He is grace and power and quicksilver flight,  
And I sit, flawed and dirtbound._

"He knew," I repeat, and I can barely breathe now, for the weight that settles over me. What have I done? How could I forget him? How could I . . .

Yoda steps forward. "And now, Qui-Gon, you may know the rest, know why he did what he did, and why you must go on, lest his sacrifice be for nought."

But I am beyond reason now, as I recall those moments. As I remember.

"His body?" I am horrified that, in all this time, I have never asked.

"Disintegrated, Qui-Gon," replies Adi gently. "There was nothing left." 

I feel something swell in my heart and look over to Master Yoda, knowing that, at this moment, he will not lie to me. "It should have been me, shouldn't it?"

And he nods. "But with you, all hope would have died. With you, the Jedi would have died. Your padawan chose to change all that. Saved you, he did; saved us all."

And I can face no more, can comprehend no more. I close my eyes and see him before me, and see the smile that he used to conceal his pain, and see the compassion that moved him, and the nobility that drove him, and the love that he gave so freely. The love I took so willingly, and was never able to return in kind.

My Obi-Wan, who has saved us all. My Obi-Wan, who stepped aside to allow me to realize my life's ambition.

To allow me to train the Chosen One.

The Chosen One. Oh, gods, the Chosen One - the gifted boy that I have encouraged in his arrogance and his pettiness and his pride, the powerful child who will know nothing of the goodness and the purity and the compassion that Obi-Wan lived.

The Chosen One - my legacy.

And I am sickened by the bitter aftertaste of my own smugness, my own petty concerns. My legacy is ashes, is not worthy of comment.

It is Obi-Wan's legacy that matters, that cries out for justice, for acknowledgement, and I feel something flex and break within me, for I know that what he did will vanish in the small print of history, unworthy of even a footnote in the grand scheme of things.

I crumble to the ground, and understand, at last, that we all construct our own version of hell, and I have found mine. It does not burn or tear at the flesh, for such things are of the body and can, if necessary, be endured.

Instead, it grows within the heart, within the soul, a vast, echoing emptiness, a place in which life will remain forever an alien presence, a thing to be remembered but never touched, a cold, frozen specter that smiles and laughs over reminders of what might have been.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The universe, the galaxy, the teeming sphere that is Coruscant, the splendor of the Jedi Temple, all continue to revolve - and evolve - around me, but I have traveled to a separate place, a place that cannot be breached without the express consent of my consciousness, and I find myself loathe to grant permission. For too long, I have denied myself the solace of memories, to spare myself the bitter anguish of other memories. I can deny them no longer.

Around me, the dark of night deepens, and I sense that my companions are, for the moment, content to wait, although I know their patience will wear thin long before I exhaust the supply of images that I am paging through in my mind.

My Obi-Wan.

My child of light.

My beloved son.

How could I have forgotten you?

Why, when I wakened in that torture chamber the Nubians termed a hospital, after all those long, bitter weeks of pain and torment, why was my first breath not spent in asking for you?

And why have I never relived - not even once - the moment when you were taken from me, the moment that tore my soul into tiny fragments?

Why?

This is not a rhetorical question. I need an answer, and I know that there is but one way to get what I need. I must do as Master Yoda demands, and, more than that, as common decency demands. I must speak of that day, and I must try to ease the terrible damage that I have done to those who loved you almost as much as I.

But first, I must gather my thoughts, which whirl and skitter like autumn leaves before a winter wind; I must allow the Force to flow through me, to mend the frayed ends of my frail recollections, to reweave the tatters of our history.  


How did we come to this place? When, and how, was everything twisted and changed? And how do I sit here now, and contemplate boys grown to men? And men, grown to old men? And, through it all, the Force, too complacent, too willing to accept sacrifices from those to whom all should be given.

How do I confront this?

My fingers trail, aimless and seeking, through the tattered box - he called it his 'silly treasure trove' - and I find that most of the items therein I can identify by nothing more than a touch, indicating that these innocuous objects - none with any intrinsic value - are as familiar to me as they were to him, and mean as much.

A silken scarf brushes my fingers, and I close my eyes and see him tying it rakishly around his head as he accepts it, with a grace that is uniquely his own, as the favor that marks him as the champion of House Organa, in the Core Worlds Inter-System Tournament held every five cycles at different locations within the central section of the Republic. He is smiling, and the fact that the Alderaanian crown princess, Ti'Alia, is completely besotted with him is obvious both in her demeanor, which calls to mind a Corellian catling in the midst of a stylized mating ritual, and in the slight scintillant smugness in his eyes. By the Force, he is breathtaking, my padawan, and, to a small degree, completely shameless, at least in this one, very intimate aspect of his persona.

I smile with the memories. A Jedi craves not the adulation, the lust that might confound less cerebral beings, but I would have been a poor Master indeed, not to mention completely clueless, to have been unaware of the eyes that followed him so hungrily whenever he walked through the Temple. It began, I think, when he was sixteen, or in that vicinity , the year when his body suddenly seemed to catch up to the growth of feet and legs and arms, and, in an amazingly short time, in the place of the gawky, awkward adolescent, there was a young man of extraordinary grace and charm. I don't think he ever went anywhere after that, without attracting at least a few wistful glances.

Ti'Alia, as I recall, wanted King Flurig to demand his service as royal consort, much to the amusement of her brother, Bail. And before the entire debacle ended, I thought that my padawan just might give in to temptation and smack the Alderaanian prince with his lightsaber, as the scion of House Organa seemed to take great delight in egging his sister on.

He was ever a revelation to me, my Obi-Wan, and a constant source of wonder, as he continuously taught me that my expectations were frequently far too mundane and dirt-bound to allow me to anticipate his responses to any given problem. As when he decided that the only way to deal with the princess, without giving rise to a diplomatic incident with unpleasant repercussions for us all, was to give her something new on which to focus.

Thus enter one Khi Mi'itherasque, Lord Braizewelt, heir to the throne of the Ampizei Confederacy, a young man with a towering crush on Princess Ti'Alia, which he expressed in great, breathy sighs and pitiful looks of longing, a young man with an impressive pedigree, a comely face and adequate physique, who had only one huge flaw. The young noble spoke with a horrible nasal twang that was tremendously grating on the ears, a problem compounded by an unfortunate tendency to stammer and blush when anyone paid him any attention at all. 

I seriously doubt that anyone, other than Obi-Wan, could have discovered (and I still don't know exactly how _he_ did it) that young Khi's verbalization problems vanished when he sang, in a sweet, pure tenor voice that pierced the heart and the ear with its clarity.

And, with my padawan, knowledge was always to be acted upon; within a matter of hours of learning about this astonishing revelation, he organized a serenade; I'm told he even concealed himself in a shrub and provided musical accompaniment.

The rest, as they say, is history, and I have it on good authority that the young couple are still as much in love as ever they were, and have named their firstborn son, Obi-Wan.

I look down now into the box, as my fingers close on another small object, a bit of carved bone strung on a frayed woven cord, and there is no smile on my face now. There are no good memories of Paxi-Veilleren.

But there is one unforgettable image, and I am forced to relive it.

_When I close my eyes, I can almost feel the bitter chill of the morning, and smell the tang of the relentless storm; breathe the stench of death, and taste the thick, clinging mud that coated everything, and hear the desperation of his broken sobs._

_As Masters and knights fought to hold back the cresting river that writhed like a living thing and assaulted the structures that confined it, to protect lowland areas not yet flooded in order to allow the completion of the evacuation, Obi-Wan and a few of his age-mates had taken to prowling the collapsing banks of the great floodway, chaining themselves together to rescue anyone caught in the fury of the raging waters. They functioned as they had been trained to do throughout their lives; disregarding their own safety, freeing their Masters to do what must be done, in the knowledge that the fate of their padawans depended now on their adherence to their training and the will of the Force. Knowing that they could rely on no one except each other should they over-reach themselves, they had worked tirelessly, doggedly, refusing to give in to exhaustion or fear; asking no quarter and receiving none._

_He had saved them all, my brave padawan; a father, a mother, and three children, none above the age of four._

_It was Padawan Muln who assisted Obi-Wan in this particular venture, but he had been forced to scramble for higher ground when one of the children began to convulse, and immediate medical assistance was needed. Still my padawan had managed to pull them all to safety, taking the last of them, a tiny girl, too young to walk, from the grasp of the family pet, a huge, six-legged Bingerra hound which had gripped the baby's sturdy clothing with large, carnivorous teeth._

_With a strength born of desperation, his body pounded and pummeled by the force of the surging flood, Obi-Wan managed, with Force enhancement, to toss the tiny girl into her father's arms as the man collapsed into the mud just beyond the reach of the water's hungry surge._

_But when he spun back, to reach for the forelegs of the faithful hound, he found that a vicious undertow had formed and dragged the pet away from him. The great shaggy head surfaced shortly, but the hound had been swept at least ten meters out into the brutal current and was being dragged further away even as his head appeared. The animal, Obi-Wan would later remark, seemed to look at him, with despair and grim acceptance in its eyes._

_My padawan almost died that day, would have died, I am almost certain, had fate not lent a hand; had I not, at that very moment, run from the barrier which I had been reinforcing to help contain a small break-through that had happened just upstream of my position. I saw him then, small - oh, my gods, how small he seemed - and weary, and radiating an anger as powerful as it was disturbing. I saw him stride boldly into that current, and it was only the power of the Force, and my own terror, that enabled me to reach him in time and to drag him from that cyclonic maelstrom. And he fought me every step of the way._

_And we sat there on the brink of disaster, covered with mud that stank of decay and death, and I held him while he wept, cradling him against me._

_He was fifteen years old at the time._

_No, there are no good memories of Paxi-Veilleren, but this tiny amulet symbolizes something that we all came to appreciate in later years. A priest of the ReQuesha tribe, the dominant ethnic group of the planet, stood on the banks of that raging river that day and watched as a young boy offered up his life, in an attempt to save a family pet, and a rather remarkable thing occurred._

_Paxi-Veilleren in general - and the ReQuesha in particular - had long been bitterly opposed to any alliance or even excessive contact with the Republic, or any offworld entities; they were renowned for their xenophobic culture, and for racial bigotry equaled almost nowhere else in the galaxy._

_It would take a lot more than the impulsive actions of one teen-aged boy to change all that, but, much later, the Jedi diplomats who worked for many long, bitter years to establish peaceful accords with the planet, finally succeeding only after a decade of negotiation, were quick to acknowledge one salient point._

_When Pir'hima Ic Seeytivok stepped forward on that fateful, death-filled day, and removed the amulet that he wore around his own throat in order to drape it over the head of a small, shocky, shivering Jedi padawan, it was a turning point in planetary history; it was the first time - ever - that a native of that world had given anything to an off-worlder._

_Obi-Wan was barely conscious at that point, but I understood the significance of the gesture and nodded my thanks._

_The priest bared his teeth at me - the Paxi equivalent of a smile - reached forward and laid a gentle finger on Obi-Wan's chin, and uttered a single word before rising to depart._

_"Veq'eshliniege."_

_It was several weeks later that I learned what the word meant, and I never told my padawan, for I don't know if he would have understood the true meaning._

_My Obi-Wan - a 'foolish treasure' indeed._

And how much more foolish, after so many years! 

I have eluded the necessity of the moment for too long, as I acknowledge, finally, that Master Yoda is right.

These children have a right to the truth.

I close the box, but the small book of his 'scribblings' remains in my hand; I will not relinquish what is so obviously an intimate part of him.

Ciara is correct; it is damnably little to represent a lifetime.

I look up, and see that they are all still waiting. The Masters have settled themselves comfortably; maturity, in a Jedi, brings an appreciation for the fact that one can listen to devastating truth just as easily when comfortably seated as when standing rigid and miserable.

The padawans lean against vertical surfaces, and I feel something bright and painful stir within me, recognizing the posture and wondering, for the thousandth time, at least, why the young are so fond of slouching against whatever wall might be closest. If I close my eyes just slightly, I can see . . .

But, no. Now is not a time to see him. Now is a time to speak of him. Finally. 

I rearrange myself into some semblance of dignity, though I fear it's far too late to worry about my image. Still, it helps me to clear my thoughts, to bring order out of chaos.

"The Sith was waiting for us," I begin softly, finding it hard to settle my voice. "In the power station. And I - I was somewhat alarmed, because I couldn't access our training bond. Obi-Wan had shut himself off from me. I thought it was because he was angry over what I . . . over Anakin. But I . . . I confess that I hadn't really tried very hard to open it. I knew he felt betrayed. I knew . . ." I pause and almost strangle myself as I try to utter the next phrase, "he _was_ betrayed. That night, on the ship on the way back to Naboo, I knew what I'd seen in his heart, in the Council chamber, just before he slammed his mental shields down. Just before I . . . closed the bond."

"You shut down the training bond?" Ciara Barosse doesn't even try to camouflage the horror she is feeling.

I take a deep breath. "Yes, I did."

She says nothing, but the tears welling in her eyes say more than enough, speak of the unbelievable amount of anguish my actions must have cost my padawan. "I have no excuse," I continue doggedly. "I thought . . . it was the will of the Force. I thought I had no other options."

I look back down at the little book I'm clutching in my hands and force myself to unclench my fingers, to avoid tearing it asunder. "He just looked at me. In the chambers . . . he just looked at me, and closed off his thoughts. But I knew what was in his mind. I knew, and he knew that I knew. He had been waiting for it for a long time. For five long years, in fact. That's how long it had been since he told me what he foresaw."

The silence in the small garden is complete now; even the breeze - never completely still at this altitude - seems to be listening, and I take a moment to reach out through the Force, to touch the consciousness of my padawan. He is back in our quarters now, sprawled across his sleep couch, tinkering with a balky servo-motor on a small surveillance droid. He is beginning to wonder at my continuing absence, but he is not alarmed - yet.

"Continue, you will," says Yoda, firmly.

"He tried to speak to me of his misgivings," I confess, "but I was unwilling to listen. So, finally, he just withdrew. I . . . I thought he was pouting."

That is almost more than Padawan Muln can endure, as he is muttering under his breath.

"When we were confronted by the Sith, I felt something strange in the Force - something that went beyond the darkness generated by the Sith. Something . . . unnatural. But there was no time to question, no time for anything but to act - and react. The creature used a double-saber - a light staff - which gave him an advantage over us. It was a weapon Obi-Wan had never faced before, and my own experience with it was limited. I tried to open the link to my padawan, but he remained closed off to me, and I grew more and more concerned. He was fighting with all of his skill, all of his ability; I don't think I'd ever seen him quite so fluid, so in contact with the moment. But he was not in contact with me."

"The Sith drew us ever deeper into the power station, and we found ourselves on a series of walkways over deep chasms, and I knew he was trying to separate us. Again, I tried to reach Obi-Wan, and again, I found myself shut out. Still, he was amazing me with his speed and his strength in the Force. It seemed that every move the Sith made, he managed to anticipate. At one point, the creature managed to lock their sabers together and kick out viciously; I still don't understand how Obi-Wan managed to avoid being knocked off the walkway, but he did. Then I was able to land a solid blow, and the Sith fell to a lower level. Obi-Wan and I leapt together, but the creature had recovered quickly, and jumped forward to be in position to shove Obi-Wan off the walkway as he landed.

"When he fell, he resorted to shouting at me, rather than opening the bond.

"'Master, you wait for me!' That's what he shouted, but, of course, I didn't listen. By this point, I was becoming alarmed. The Sith . . ." I pause, loathe to say the words. "The Sith was unbelievably strong, and amazingly skilled. But I . . . I thought I saw some signs that he might be tiring. He had, after all, been fighting two of us, two of the most skilled of the Jedi, so I thought that I would just pursue and finish this thing, before he had a chance to recoup and regenerate. His control of the Dark Force was impressive." 

There is a sound that is almost a snicker, and I am shocked to see a smirk on Padawan Muln's face. "He played you," he says, not bothering to conceal his sarcasm. "The great Qui-Gon Jinn got played, by a Sith apprentice."

I can only nod. "Yes, he did. Obi-Wan was right. I should have waited. He continued to move deeper into the station, and he continued to defend everything I threw at him. It wasn't long before I realized that he wasn't the one who was tiring."

An icy heaviness settles now in my chest, and I suddenly find the lighting here far too bright. For once, I wish for darkness. "The Sith raced through a power conduit corridor; he was almost dancing away from me, as if deliberately drawing me on, and I suddenly realized the foolishness of my actions. So I paused, and a laser barrier snapped into place between us, as I debated the wisdom of my pursuit. I looked back, and saw that Obi-Wan had also been halted by another of the barriers, but not for long. He took something from his pocket, some kind of control device, and calmly deactivated the barriers that stood between us, while the one that separated me from the Sith remained in place. He ran to meet me, and I started to ask about the device, but he just smiled at me and deactivated the barrier.

"And the battle was on again, but this time, it seemed that maybe the Sith might have cause to worry. Obi-Wan was totally focused, totally in tune with the Force, and virtually unstoppable."

I pause again, fighting for an even breath. "Until I missed a parry, and the Sith was quick to take advantage. Obi-Wan somehow was able to reach in and deflect the blow, which otherwise would have pierced my heart, but nothing could have prevented it. The blade penetrated my left side, through and through, and I went down, completely incapacitated. I think I heard Obi-Wan shout something at me, but I don't really remember. I just know that I looked up and saw him start toward me, desperation in his eyes, and the Sith leapt aside, gathered the Dark Force around him, and pushed. Obi-Wan was thrown backwards, into the melting pit, and I knew, in that moment, that we were lost. My padawan was gone, and I - I would soon follow him into the Force."

I look down now, and meet Master Yoda's eyes. "At that moment, believing him lost, I found that I really didn't care very much."

Ciara is fighting back sobs now, eyes heavy with shadows. "But he wasn't lost, was he?"

I look once more down at the shabby little book, and imagine his hands, his slender, graceful hands, closed around it. "The Sith was jubilant," I continue, "and not averse to a bit of gloating. He moved toward me, while lamenting the fact that my beautiful padawan's body had been destroyed, and telling me in great detail what he would have done to the boy if he'd had the chance. Then he sneered and observed that he was disappointed in the quality of the competition; he'd expected more from the great Qui-Gon Jinn and his pretty little padawan. He stood before me and raised his blade, and smiled that horrible smile, as he struck downward, to sever my head from my body."

I am forced to pause, to allow the shudder to pass through my body. "Obi-Wan flew up out of that pit like an avenging angel, and there was a dark beauty in his eyes that chilled me to the bone. Obviously, he had caught himself on some projection. I never saw anyone move so quickly, so surely. He had no weapon, but he needed none. He simply wrapped his arms around that dark horror, and, pushing his feet against the rim, lifted the Sith, and propelled both of them out over the pit."

I find now that I cannot even breathe, and the silence that surrounds me seems to expand, to fill the garden, and the great city, and all existence, everywhere. Should there not be a moment of silence - a single moment of observance - for such a man?

"Spoke to you, he did." Master Yoda's comment is not a question.

I nod, spent now, with no strength left to avoid this one last truth. "He opened the bond, for one single moment."

"What did he say?" It's Garen Muln that's demanding the answer, and I know that nothing I say - tonight or ever - is going to warrant his forgiveness.

"He said, 'I love you'."

And young Garen, at last, is broken, falling to his knees as he is racked by sobs that seem to tear from his soul.

I stir as if to rise, to offer . . .something, but I am stopped by the terrible coldness that glows in Ramal Dyprio's eyes as he moves forward and gathers the young man up against him, handling the rangy youth as easily as if he were no more substantial than a ragdoll.

Ciara and Bant stand back a bit, each offering a measure of comfort to the other and knowing, instinctively, that, at this moment, their companion requires the attentions of a Master. The Mon Calamarian looks down at me, and I know that, if the choice is hers, she and I will never see each other again. Except . . .

"Will you add his name?" she asks, more steadily than I might have expected.

I nod.

And she shakes her head slowly. "I could forgive you anything else, Master Jinn. Everything - even the fact that you never let him feel that he was worthy of you. He explained that to me; he understood it, even if I didn't."

She pauses, and her breath catches in her throat. "But he died so you wouldn't. He died, telling you he loved you. And you just . . . forgot him. That, I cannot, I will not forgive."

And I look down and know that what she speaks is only a pale echo of what she feels, and what she feels is no more than a zephyr compared to the cyclone that is rising within me.

I let him go; I let him go into the Force alone. I let him go - unmourned, unmissed, unremarked.

And I find, finally, that I cannot face any more, not even within myself. I want only to touch some part of him, some memory that isn't tainted with what I've done.

I grope for the little book and open it, searching for something, when I feel a tremendous surge in the Force, a wild, swirling, thunderous upheaval, traced with darkness.

"Anakin," I say, too weary to deal with this, but knowing I have no choice. I am committed, I am obligated . . . Oh, my gods, I don't care. 

I turn to face Master Yoda, panic growing within me, as my padawan bursts through the doorway.

"What are you doing?" he shouts, his anger scarlet and visible around him, like heat haze. "You're hurting him. You better stop, or I'll make you stop. I'll make you . . ."

"Anakin," I say softly, gently. "Calm down. I'm all right."

"You're not!" There is no arguing with him. "You're all . . . you wanted him to die. All of you. You wanted it not to be . . ."

"That's enough, Padawan," I insist, reaching for some kind of Masterly control, and failing miserably. "I needed to do this. I needed to . . ."

"No, you didn't." His voice is almost a snarl. "He's gone, and you don't need to think about him any more. It only hurts you to think about him, and I won't let you . . ."

I feel something move and break deep within me, as I look up and see Master Yoda step forward, something flaring in his eyes. "Explain what you mean, you will, young padawan," says the venerable Master.

And Anakin realizes, abruptly, that he has said too much, and is suddenly much like an animal at bay. His eyes grow huge, and he seeks an escape that is not there.

"Padawan," I say softly. "No one is going to hurt you, but you must tell me what you mean. What did you . . . do?"

The boy comes to stand at my side, but he does not meet my eyes. "He hated me," he says softly, swallowing hard. "And you loved him so much, I thought. I didn't want you to . . . reach out to him. I was afraid he'd talk you out of . . ."

Master Yoda sighs noisily and looks every one of his advanced years. "Blocked your bond, he did," he says sadly, "on Naboo, and blocked your memories - afterward."

I feel a flare of anguish deep within me, in a place that I thought could not possibly feel any greater pain. I was wrong. "But that's not possible. I'm a Jedi Master. He couldn't . . ."

And I see the explanation in Yoda's face, and my last scrap of composure shreds within me as he puts it into words. "The boy only did what you allowed him to do. What you wanted, he gave you; the bliss of ignorance."

And, as easily as that, the circle of betrayal is complete. Obi-Wan was right, all along. Unwittingly, I conspired to take from him that which he valued most, and there can be no forgiveness.

I look to Mace Windu, a friend once, and, I hope, still enough of a friend for me to ask. "Take him, please. I . . . can't."

The dark Master appears to wish to say something, but, in the end, he doesn't. He merely gestures for Anakin to accompany him.

"No!" It's almost a primal scream. My padawan wraps himself around me, his fists knotted in my robes. "I won't let you send me away. I hated him. I'm glad he's dead. He wanted to keep you away from me; he wanted to leave me a slave. I won't let you . . ."

But I cannot cope with this; I just can't. I push the boy away, gently, and peer into his face. "Oh, Anakin. How little you knew him! I'm sorry. I need . . ."

"Him! You need him!" And I see that there is no possibility of containing his rage, not now. "You always needed him. You know what they call him around here? Saint Kenobi - the perfect padawan. Well, you can need him all you want, Master, _but he's dead_. So maybe he wasn't quite as good as they say, huh? I mean, he lost, didn't he? And, like it or not, I'm the only padawan you have left."

I simply stare at him, saying nothing, but I think he sees what's in my heart, and, suddenly, his rage simply falls away, leaving behind a frightened, lonely little boy. I wonder briefly if I will ever be able to look at him again, without seeing what he did, and what he felt.

This time, when Mace beckons to him, he goes, without another word, and I can't even bear to watch him, or to meet his eyes as he looks at me one last time.

Once more, I look down at the tattered little book, and I feel myself move away from this place, from these people. I feel as if I'm falling into myself, and into the grasp of memory.

I open the book, and find that the last entry was made on the night before we accompanied the queen back to Naboo.

I look at the short verse and realize abruptly how wrong I've been. There is no point at which one can assume that there will be no more pain. Apparently, the capacity of the human heart for pain - is infinite. 

_I stand now on the cusp of night,_  
 _My last verse written, last sketch hung;_  
 _As time intones its sad farewell,_  
 _The sweetest songs remain unsung._

A great, smothering darkness wells around me, as the last small capacity for doubt, the last scrap of hope, is taken away, leaving me naked and exposed, with no further refuge to be found. 

He knew. Oh, sweet Force, he knew.

* * * * * * * * *

 

Time is passing, I suppose. I can't recall a place or an event in which it did not, no matter how elastic - or obstinate - it might have seemed. But time has no meaning any more, and neither, I find, does much of anything else. I cower here, in this garden which has provided countless hours of delight for generations of laughing toddlers, and find, much to my astonishment, that everything I have treasured in my life, every purpose I have taken for my own, every milestone for which I reached - all have come together here. All have entered this place, rendered so unexpectedly solemn by the gravity of the moment, like polite strangers at a formal reception - reserved, separate, discreet - and finally, with perfect, complacent, very correct little smiles, have turned their backs on each other - and on me, and departed for more amicable environs. They apparently are unintrigued by the coldness of my greeting.

All that I can feel, all that I can see, all that I know is him, and what he did for me. And I am still unable to comprehend the why of it all.

I know little of love; I confess it freely. Love, in its fullness, in its passion, has never been encouraged among the Jedi. It is entirely too fraught with vulnerability. To love is to give hostages to fate, a condition devoutly to be avoided by those who live or die based on the ability to project stoicism and restraint. 

But I am speaking, of course, of the ideal, the goal that all Masters attempt to instill in their apprentices. The reality is something entirely different.

Because it is discouraged, frowned upon, feared, even resented, love is - more than anything else - hidden and suppressed. It is never acknowledged and tasted and experienced openly, and perhaps that is why we, as a rule, do not handle it very well.

But I see now, as I am sure others have seen before me, that our reluctance to explore the depths of love has not, as we intended, succeeded in the abolition of the emotion; it has only made us clumsy in its practice, and susceptible to its vagaries. 

I don't think Obi-Wan ever had those problems; I don't think we ever succeeded in eradicating his capacity for love, though Force knows it wasn't for lack of trying. But he seemed to be able to shrug off the disapproval and discouragement, to let it flow around him, without ever really touching his heart.

He knew more of love than I will ever know and therein, of course, lies the true tragedy of this moment; that he was so able to give of himself, to open himself, to risk himself, and I - was not.

It is often said that the most successful pairings of Masters and padawans are those in which the student teaches the teacher, and I feel the awful weight of truth settle over me, the truth that whispers of how much I could have learned from him, how much he sought to teach me, and what a perfect lesson it would have been then. I have learned it, finally, but oh, Force, much, much too late.

I lie here, curled around myself, vaguely aware of a chill creeping through my body, but too focused on what lies within me to worry about what happens without. My mind, it seems, is stuck in an endless loop of random images, as I see him before me, in kaleidoscopic visions, bright and splintered and unrelated, and I wonder, without much interest, if this is what it means to dissociate from reality. 

As I note that I can almost hear his laughter, as I visualize his first ride on a winged pegei or the first time he defeated me in a saber match, I wonder if immersing myself in such a bright world of fantasy for the remainder of my life would really be such a terrible thing.

And a scrap of verse flashes in my mind; just a fragment, incomplete, but, oh, Force, more poignant for it. 

_For those who cannot, I can._

Minimalist, indeed. Spare, and elegant, and powerful. And infinitely cruel, like sharp, vindictive spurs, urging me back toward a reality I no longer wish to inhabit.

I gradually become more aware of my surroundings, and realize that, despite my own distorted perceptions, very little time has passed, and this ordeal is not yet ended. My companions have been quiet, allowing me to push my way through this initial layer of torment, but there will be many more, both tonight and for an endless progression of nights to come.

Jedi do not seek vengeance, and that will prove true even among those gathered here, to bear silent witness to the final decimation of Qui-Gon Jinn; regardless of what dark urges swell deep within them, beneath the layers of civilization imposed by the disciplines of the Order, they will comport themselves as Jedi. Meaning that what they cannot channel into the Force, they will bury within the deepest chasms of their personalities; it will be forgotten over time, because it is unthinkable that they should do otherwise.

Except for me, as I find that very little is unthinkable now. I raise my eyes, and see Garen Muln staring at me. And I ask myself how it is that a young man of only twenty-seven cycles can have eyes that are so impossibly old and weary. Oh, yes, young Garen will seek to suppress it, will hide it from himself, but within him a fine, sharp, brilliant hatred is blazing, a flame that he will finally, in time, manage to cover and conceal beneath Jedi serenity, but it will continue to smolder for as long as he lives. He may achieve equanimity and the ability to confront me without visible enmity, but his hatred will live and flourish, strong and vital in the dark corners of his soul.

I look around the circle, seeking . . . In all honesty, I have no idea what I'm seeking. But, whatever it may be, I am not finding it. Not even in the huge, glossy eyes of Master Yoda. Although there is no condemnation in his face, there is also little of warmth or solace.

And I draw a deep shaky breath as I recall how much the diminutive Master loved my padawan. How can I expect him to offer comfort for me when I have only just acknowledged the atrocity I perpetrated against my beloved student? And I am only now coming to realize that, no matter how willing he, or anyone else, might be to offer it, there is truly no comfort to be had. 

For there is no power that can reach back and change yesterday. Yesterday simply was - and is no more.

Like my Obi-Wan.

Something touches me, something very small and hesitant; something more afraid of me than I am of myself, and that, at the moment, is saying a very great deal. Yet, still the tiny flicker of life does not withdraw, but sits, poised for flight, one delicate appendage extended to touch my knee.

I look down, confusion swelling within me, to meet the speculative gaze of one obviously perplexed j'helia cohoxt. The miniscule creature is trembling slightly, flagrantly unthrilled with the idea of being so close to such a towering monster, but it makes no move to bolt as I slowly, ever so slowly, reach down and touch its head with one tentative, terribly clunky forefinger.

Dark, glistening eyes blink at me, and then, to my amazement, the small, exquisitely-shaped head arches against me, delivering an obvious invitation to caress the little body. I do so, filled with wonder, and glance into the nearby underbrush where I discern the vague outline of the second j'helia cohoxt, which remains motionless and wary. Apparently, I am deemed approachable by only one of the last survivors of this lovely species, but that is honor enough. 

The tiny body is softly furred, and the touch is silky and comforting, somehow. And I don't stop to wonder why this should happen now. It's enough that it is happening.

I close my eyes, and see him again - that gloriously enchanting child, and the spell he cast - and I know suddenly, somehow, that it is not me the jelly-coat is reaching for; it is the remnant of my padawan that still clings, somehow, to my own Force persona. He was by my side for twelve years; it only stands to reason that something of him survives, in me.

And it's too much; it's a blessing I do not deserve and cannot accept. With a sigh, I gently push the tiny creature away, and rise to my feet.

It is apparently the signal Master Yoda has been awaiting, as he moves forward and looks up at me. "A choice, your padawan made, Qui-Gon. To understand it, you must now see what he saw."

My voice barely stirs the air around me, as I look away from his gaze. "I think . . . I think I've seen too much. I can't . . ."

"Optional, this is not!" There is steel in the little troll's tone. "Powerful in the unifying Force was your Obi-Wan. More powerful than you knew, or perhaps only more powerful than you ever wanted to know. Will you now dishonor what he did by refusing to learn the reasons?"

A sudden chill grips me, and I note, for the first time, that a fine mist has risen, and seems to gravitate to the radiant warmth of living flesh. "It's too much, Master," I whisper. "How much more must I see? How can I . . ."

"All there is," he replies sternly. "If you are to move forward from this place."

I turn to look down at him, and see that he has already perceived the scope of the awful lethargy that grips me. "And if I choose not to?"

He sighs. "Then you allow his sacrifice to count for nothing."

I feel it then, stirring deep in my heart, stirring and growing and consuming everything in its path. Rage. Undiluted, malevolent, relentless rage that expresses itself as icy resolve. "Do not manipulate me!" It is almost a snarl. "We have come to this place, to this awful place, because we - the mighty Jedi - have taken it upon ourselves to manipulate each other. Because we've assumed rights that are not ours. I am not going to be manipulated again."

"Believe yourself manipulated, do you?" Yoda is serene, as always.

"Wasn't I?" I cry, and then, losing my breath. "Wasn't he?"

"Meant to be, it was." The Master is adamantly unrepentant.

"Yes." I can't be bothered to suppress the vein of insolence that threads its way through my tone. "The will of the Force; that's always the excuse, isn't it? The will of the Force!" I clasp my hands tightly, to keep from grabbing someone, anyone, and throttling the life out of whatever body might be handy. "How terribly convenient that we have this ever-ready explanation for everything. How can there be culpability or guilt, if everything is the will of the Force? Was it - was it the will of the Force that he die?"

I am beyond out of control now, and with no immediately obvious target for my fury, I find that almost anything will suffice.

"No." 

The unrestrained power of the voice stops me cold, and I turn to see that Master Windu has returned, and there is no way to deflect the wrath that blazes in his eyes.

"No," he repeats, more softly but with even greater emphasis. "It wasn't."

"Then why . . ." The desperate groping for some shred of sanity to which to cling is obvious, even to me.

Yoda sighs, and there is an eternity of sadness in his eyes. "The will of Obi-Wan Kenobi, it was. His choice, and you _will_ know his reasons. Promised him, I did."

And I suddenly know more than I want to know, as my mind reaches and finally grasps the meaning of what he has said.

I look down and feel another layer of ice form around the core of who I am. "He wasn't the only one who knew, was he?"

He doesn't even flinch; yet I know, somehow, that my realization has taken his own anguish to a new level of intensity.

"No," answers Master Windu. "He wasn't."

"My friends," I say, softly, barely able to comprehend it, allowing the sharp bitterness of sarcasm to punctuate the words. "How could 'my friends' allow this? How could you . . ."

"Because he was right." There is absolutely no trace of uncertainty in Windu's tone, but that doesn't change the fact that it is heavy with his own suffering. "And Master Yoda is correct. If you honor him at all, you will listen. You will understand why he chose as he did."

"I already understand that," I snap. "I am, after all, the one who set him up for it, am I not? For his whole life, I - and you, my noble Masters - set him up to believe himself unworthy. To believe he was fortunate to be chosen to offer himself to serve me."

Yoda nodded. "Knew that, he did. As well as you."

I pause in preparing for the next segment of my furious tirade, hearing something unexpected, not so much in the words, as in the emphasis behind them. "Are you saying that there was another reason?"

Mace Windu stares at me, and I shiver again, as much from the coldness of his gaze as the falling temperatures. "There is no doubt he would have died for you, but you always knew that. He offered himself often enough; throwing himself into the fire, time and time again, to pull you to safety. It was, after all, what he was trained to do, what all padawans are trained to do."

"Go on." My words are barely audible. It is obvious to me that he has something more to say, something important, something that may change the direction of the rest if my life, and I urge him to say it, while I still have the courage to listen.

Master Yoda lifts his hands, and, with a simple gesture, disperses the small group that had formed a circle around me since the beginning of this debacle. In little more than the span of a brace of heartbeats, Obi-Wan's young friends have retreated, managing somehow, to offer support to each other without ever actually touching. Master Dyprio, though obviously not dismissed, chooses to accompany them, his dark eyes inscrutable as he pauses to glance my way before making his exit.

Now there are only Masters remaining within the confines of the little garden; yet still, it feels crowded, filled with foreboding, though I know not why. What else can there be that I might find ominous? What could possibly exist beyond the apocalypse of the heart to generate such dread? I have stood by idly, and allowed the sacrifice of that which I should have treasured above all, that which I was sworn to protect above all things, save the will of the Force.

What else is there to fear?

Master Yoda steps forward, and I realize that, somewhat to my surprise, these are not rhetorical questions.

"Kneel, you will," says the tiny Master. "No misunderstanding can I allow in this. Thus, mind-to-mind contact is required. Show you, I will, what Obi-Wan saw."

But I hesitate, a heaviness settling around my heart, as I demand one further clarification. "Was he the only one to see it?"

Yoda sighs. "No, Qui-Gon. A true vision, he had. Shared with others, it was."

"What others?" I'm not yet ready to relinquish my doubts.

Long ears perk, before drooping again. "Question my insights, will you?"

And I am defeated, of course. Within the Order, there are none who see more clearly than Master Yoda.

I settle to my knees, resigned to enduring what cannot be avoided, but wondering, nevertheless, if I will survive this. Already, I doubt my ability to face another sunrise, another burst of radiance signaling the birth of day, a radiance that my padawan will never touch again. I find that I have little interest in experiencing anything which is so steadfastly beyond his reach.

Master Yoda settles himself comfortably, bracing himself with his gimmer stick, before pausing to regard me with great solemnity. "Lower your shields, you will," he says finally, unexpectedly gentle. "Shielding around the garden, Masters Windu and Gallia will maintain. Frighten the younglings, we will not."

"Is it truly that bad?" I ask, struggling to achieve some degree of calm.

He sighs. "The death of the Jedi, you will see, Master Qui-Gon. A true vision that your padawan saw - and changed, by virtue of his actions. What you will see would have happened, if not for his choice."

"I don't . . ."

"Quiet! Time, it is, for truth to be shared. Now, here, we will share this, and speak of it, as necessary. But spoken no more will it be, after this day."

And as he reaches out to touch me, it takes all the strength I can muster not to cringe away from him. I don't want to see this. I don't want to understand what could be so terrible it could compel my Obi-Wan to throw his life away, and I don't want to know how deeply he should be honored for what he did, when it is certain that he never will be.

But there is, of course, no choice. Yoda is relentless; he is neither cruel nor vicious, but he is determined. I will not be allowed to hide myself from this truth.

I close my eyes, and the visions begin.

In the first of them, I see myself dying - a most peculiar sensation, I assure you; and, immediately thereafter, I see what my arrogant demands set in motion.

It begins in a decidedly laconic fashion, but it escalates rapidly, and I feel my breath catch and hold.

_Oh, my Obi-Wan, what did I do to you?_

_The visions grow more intense as they darken: deception, malevolence, lust, suffering._

_Betrayal. Treachery. Death._

_And loneliness. Oh, Force, a loneliness inconceivable to those who had lived their entire lives as members of a community, joined in noble purpose. A stark, barren, cold, infinite, empty loneliness, without end, without solace, without so much as the touch of a tender hand. A beautiful young man, grown solemn and old before his time. A bleak, eternal vigil, borne in silence, borne in wretched hardship. Borne in - oh, no, no, no - borne in guilt._

_My gift to him: an eternal gift, which would survive my own death, and the death of everything dear to him, and force him, ultimately, to hold himself accountable for it all._

_The gift of guilt - and the gift of Anakin._

_My padawan would truly have had much for which to thank me._

Master Yoda pulls away from me, and I rise, reeling away from that which I cannot bear to see.

I feel myself caught in strong, steady arms, with hands that grip so tightly I know there will be bruises tomorrow, but it matters little. "I can't . . ."

"That is what he saw, Qui-Gon," says Mace Windu, refusing to allow me to jerk free of his grasp. "That is what he avoided." Despite the firmness of his hold on me, his voice is curiously gentle. "Would you have wanted that for him? Did you see the desolation in his heart?"

I shift away from him slightly in order to stare into his face. "I thought you were angry with me."

His draws a deep, ragged breath. "I was. Not because of what happened, but because you seemed to . . ."

"Forget him." It was not a question.

"Yes. I couldn't understand why anyone so blessed, someone gifted with such a treasure, would have just . . ."

And I have one of those moments of epiphany that happen only very rarely. My eyes, as they say, are opened with dizzy suddenness. "You loved him. You loved my padawan, didn't you?"

He smiles. "If you check around, Master Qui-Gon, I think you'll find that there are very few within the order who did not share your affection for your apprentice. He is . . . he was very special - very unique."

I nod, shamed by the willfulness that allowed me to refuse to see what everyone else saw so easily.

"Did he . . . .was he able to . . ."

"Change it?" responds Master Yoda.

I can only nod, and hold myself in painful readiness, waiting for the answer.

"Yes, Master Qui-Gon. He was successful. The circumstance of his death - and your life - was enough to redirect the flow of history, and his visions gave us the key to unlock the great darkness that threatened to engulf us all."

"The Sith." I know I must be right, for I feel a sense of rightness, of completeness within the Force. Apparently, it has been there, well within my reach, for some time, but I have failed to take notice.

"The Sith," confirms Yoda. "Palpatine, or Darth Sidious, as he seems to prefer."

And I close my eyes and hear that sweet cultured voice, warmly threaded with amusement, but very intense, for all that. _"I find that I don't care much for the Senator from Naboo, Master. He has a great facility with speech, but actually says very little - and somehow always seems to be in exactly the right position to reap the benefits of someone else's misfortune. I am loathe to ascribe it all to simple coincidence. I believe he bears watching."_

"Immaculate instincts," I murmur, allowing a small smile to touch my lips.

"What?" prompts Master Windu.

"Obi-Wan never liked him," I reply.

"Smart boy," says Mace. "We should have listened earlier, and we might have actually been able to catch the slimy bastard."

"So he got away?"

"He did," the dark Master confirms, "but he is finished, nevertheless. Once we knew where to look, we were able to unearth sufficient proof of his Sith activities to justify having him removed from office, while his support staff and all his clandestine contacts were disbanded, and rendered harmless. He is now - for all his darkside abilities - cut off from his power sources. Adrift and alone; his ambitions thwarted."

I nod and close my eyes. "All because of the vision and unselfishness of one young apprentice."

"Yes, and the strength and devotion of those he left behind."

I shrug slightly. "He's left us nothing to do, but mop up."

Master Windu heaves a deep breath. "Not quite."

"What do you mean?" Somehow, I sense that everything said in this place tonight has been only a preliminary to what will be said now.

"A danger, there still is," says Master Yoda, looking up at me, his gaze wide with speculation. "Know what it is, you do."

I shake my head, wearily, noting in passing that it feels full and mushy like an overripe melon. "I'm not . . ."

No. It can't be. I must be wrong. I _was_ wrong, obviously. So it can't be that they believe . . .

It is now my turn to draw that deep, shaky breath. "Anakin."

Yoda seems to be lost in contemplation of the biological patterns of a single miortha leaf. "Ever and only two there are. One survives, and he will seek another. It is the way of all things to seek balance."

"Don't ask me," I say slowly. "You can't ask me to do this."

Huge, citrus eyes turn up to meet mine. "Just hours ago, your only purpose in life, it was."

"But I didn't know then."

"What difference does that make?" Mace Windu sounds eminently reasonable, and I feel my rage stirring within me again.

"How can you ask me that? He knew. The boy knew what Obi-Wan did. Knew all along, and concealed it from me. I can't form a bond around a lie."

"Can't you?" The mockery in Master Windu's tone was thick and flagrant. "Seems to me a bond formed despite everything you could do to stop it, with Obi-Wan."

"That was different."

"Why, Qui-Gon?" Master Gallia had not spoken for some time, but there was no mistaking the determination in her voice. "Perhaps because, in that case, you were the one who was lying, even if the lie was only one you told yourself."

"Obi-Wan and I," I say firmly, "were brought together by the Force. My objections were foolish and groundless, and he . . . he . . ." I find suddenly that I cannot continue, as new memories rise within me, memories of that long-ago time, when he was so young, so vulnerable, so hurt. And a voice within me insists on pointing out that, though he might have learned, over the years, to conceal and suppress the hurt, it never truly left him, for I never truly sought to take it from him.

Master Yoda has been thoughtful as I converse with his colleagues, but he looks up now, eyes gleaming. "Something in you, Master Qui-Gon," he observes, "draws these special children. Meant for you was Obi-Wan, and knew it he did, before either of us. Meant for you, also, is young Skywalker."

I shove my hands deep into the sleeves of my cloak, to conceal their trembling. "Surely you're not comparing Obi-Wan to Anakin. If nothing else, this debacle has shown me how wrong I was to believe him to be . . ."

I can't say it, can't face it, but Mace Windu has no such compunctions. "Your legacy?"

"My legacy," I echo, bitterly, but then I am touched with memory, and my tone softens. "My legacy was lost in a power station on Naboo. My legacy was worth ten times ten thousand of that rogue child. How could I have been so blind? I have been lying to myself. Refusing to see the boy's flaws; making excuses for his venal actions and self-serving attitude."

"Noticed, we have," says Master Yoda, dryly. "Nevertheless, correct you were in one assumption. Trained, the boy must be. To abandon him is to invite disaster."

"Then another must do it," I reply, staring now out into the myriad patterns of Coruscant luminescence that drive back the darkness. "I cannot."

"What then will you do?" asks the lovely Adi. "Will you just sit and wither away? Have you decided to abandon life, Qui-Gon?"

But I'm not ready to think such thoughts, to contemplate possibilities. I've only just regained memories that require sorting, and some that require action.

"First," I reply softly, "I will honor my fallen padawan. For one such as he to have been shunted aside and forgotten is . . . ."

"Not forgotten," says Master Yoda, with a tiny smile. "Never forgotten."

"Forgive me, Master," I remark, "but an occasional thought is not enough. I will add his name to the list of fallen Jedi, those who are remembered with honor. If anyone ever earned it, he did."

Yoda turns and looks up to exchange glances with both Adi Gallia and Mace Windu, and the dark Master looks at me, his expression guarded and difficult to read.

"Follow me," he says finally, as if he's just reached a decision, one with which he is still not entirely comfortable.

We emerge from the quiet garden only to find that the corridors of the Temple are now equally quiet, as the hour has grown quite late. Undoubtedly, there is still some measure of clamor and turmoil on the residential levels, where padawans and knights frequently socialize of an evening, but here, in what my former apprentice always termed 'the rarefied atmosphere of the upper echelon' -cheeky little upstart that he was - the quiet is layered and textured, almost formal, as if awaiting the beginning of some ceremonial ritual.

"Where are we going?" I ask, feeling slightly foolish to realize that I have lowered my voice conspicuously. 

"You'll see," replies Master Windu. "It isn't far."

I ask no more, for I sense that there is some small measure of - can it be embarrassment - in the dark Master's demeanor.

We are not, of course, moving very swiftly, as we must pace ourselves not to race away from the smallest of our number. Every member of the Jedi Order learns early on in life that is not politic to outrun the most powerful and most venerable Jedi Master in the history of the knighthood.

Nevertheless, our journey is as brief as promised, and we pause before a door I do not recall ever having noticed before. It is small and non-descript, located in a shallow alcove tucked away behind a freeform sculpted fountain centered in a circular area which serves as a hub from which a number of corridors branch out.

"What is this?" I ask, growing somewhat more suspicious now. 

"Quiet," says Adi abruptly, though not unkindly. "Of late, we have adopted a mode of silence here. It seems appropriate."

"But what is it?"

It is Mace Windu who turns to me to provide the answer. "It's called the Garden of Becoming."

Which, of course, tells me exactly nothing.

But still, I understand somehow that this moment should be a solemn one, and I follow Master Gallia through the doorway with a growing sense of anticipation.

My eyes must adjust to the dimness before I can distinguish anything, but I stretch out with the Force and note that this enclosure is extremely small, less than half the size of the children's area we've just left. It is also less structured - more natural, and more drenched with a sense of the Living Force. Indeed, the presence of the great energy field is as strong here as anywhere I have known.

I hear the sound of water ahead of us, a merry, splashing sound that speaks of a considerable volume of water, rather than the narrow trickles more common in cultivated areas.

There is also a light source ahead of us, not intrusive, but warm and golden and flickering, and growing brighter as the sound of rushing water grows louder. We round a thick hedgerow and enter a stone-lined clearing, which is enclosed within the curving banks of a rushing stream, and there is an object at the center of the open space - a rough rectangle, standing on end, as tall as an average man, its dark, rough-hewn surface just kissed by the flicker of what appears to be torchlight.

Abruptly, everyone stops moving and turns to look at me, and I wonder why, until my eyes once more touch the stone, and I find that whatever strength I might once have had in my body and appendages is simply gone. Boneless, nerveless, I sink to the cobblestones and crawl forward on my hands and knees, my eyes and mind - my very being - stricken mute and senseless.

The great slab of Pohrphriasque marble is veined with gold and amethyst, and the surface is pitted and heavily textured, but it is not the stone itself that draws me, but the image that seems to be struggling to emerge from it. It is as if he is fighting his way out of its confinement, but has thus far managed to free only his face and one shoulder, a bit of his torso, his sword arm and one thigh, thrust forward against the grain of the stone.

The image is perfect, and yet, it is still rough, and it is different from every angle. From the front and the dominant side, he is as he was that last day - a young man in his prime, a creature of stunning beauty, on the cusp of dominance; from another angle, the softer lines of the child still cover the sharper angles of the adult features. 

I reach up - I must touch this work of art - and caress the sweet cleft of his chin, and find that even the padawan braid has been duplicated, although it too is rough-cut and stylized.

The image blurs before me, and it is some time before I realize that the cause is the deluge of tears that flow from my eyes. My fingers trace down the stone, and I note that there are figures carved into the broad base of the sculpture. No, not figures. Letters. Inset with two blue-violet sapphires, polished and gleaming. The focusing crystals from his lightsaber - the only thing that went into that pit that day that would have been indestructible.

I sit back and wipe my eyes, and note that the flickering light falls in such a way that the letters seem almost to dance in the uneven radiance.

_"I would be remembered for a quick smile, a ready wit, a strong arm, a steady heart - and an occasional moment of divine madness."_

I turn and stare up into the face of Master Mace Windu, and find myself barely capable of coherent speech.

"Who?" I stammer.

Mace just looks embarrassed, so it is the lovely Adi who replies. "Master Windu spent many hours here, Qui-Gon. It's only been completed within the last few weeks."

My eyes widen, and I admit complete astonishment. "You?" I ask, staring at the dark Master as if I've never seen him before, as perhaps I haven't. "You did this?"

He nods, and his eyes soften as he studies the image.

"And the inscription?"

He smiles. "An answer he provided in a military history class. The question was, when your life is done, how would you like to be remembered." He pauses again, and reaches out to lay a proprietary hand on the stone, and the softness in his eyes bleeds into his voice. "I never heard a better response."

"You see, Qui-Gon," says Master Yoda, stepping forward to look up at me. "Forgotten, he never was. Nor will ever be. The flame is perpetual. It will burn, as long as the Temple stands."

I struggle to my feet and move forward to gaze directly into that beloved face, and find that it encompasses both how I saw him in his final days, and how I remember him best - the firmness of young adulthood combined with the sweet tenderness of youth. "The Garden of Becoming?" 

I'm not sure to whom I'm directing the inquiry, but it's Adi who answers. "It seemed the proper place. Everything within this garden is a work in progress - from the various alien plants which undergo quite striking metamorphoses at various points in their growing cycles, to some of the fauna, which go through a chrysalis phase. There are other pieces of art here, all featuring the nature of change. Thus, the name."

"I think I like it," I say finally, unable to prevent myself from reaching out to trace the delicate line of a strong jaw or the curve of a bicep. I turn, at last, to face its creator, and am momentarily stricken silent. "I never knew you could do something like this," I finally manage to say.

He smiles. "Truthfully, I don't think I ever knew it myself, until I saw this piece of stone. It just seemed to speak to me, and I saw him within it."

"How do I thank you?"

"You don't," he responds quickly. "I didn't do this for you."

"Nevertheless, you have my gratitude, for doing something that I could not, even if I had remembered that I should."

He nods, and I think perhaps I see some indication that - someday - Master Windu may be able to forgive me for my failures, even if I am never able to forgive myself.

I sigh softly. "Where is Anakin?"

"Sleeping," he answers, "in the crèche. I thought it best that he remain asleep until you have some time to come to terms with everything."

My gaze as I stare at him, and then, at Master Yoda, does not waver. "There are things that one can never come to terms with," I say firmly, "but I will not allow anyone else to deal with this in my place. Tomorrow, I will speak to him, and try to make him understand."

"Understand, he will not," says Master Yoda. "See this as a rejection, he will."

But I am in no mood to worry about coddling the boy. "Then perhaps it is something he should learn to deal with."

Tempers are simmering again, but Master Adi steps forward, and her serenity soothes the fires that are trying to break loose within us all. "Perhaps, we should all step back a bit, and spend some time in meditation. A resolution may yet present itself."

Mace Windu and I exchange rueful smiles, acknowledging - though silently - that she is almost certainly more Jedi than either of us.

"May I . . . stay here, for a while?" I ask, my eyes drawn once more to that face, as I trace the smile with a trembling finger; the slight, scapegrace smile that, with just the curl of a lip, could so easily become a smirk, at those moments when he was in what he often referred to as 'smart-ass' mode.

"Despite its somewhat remote location," replies Master Windu, "it is still a public garden, and you may stay as long as you choose."

I nod, and am immediately alone with this precious image, and feel myself drawn steadily and hopelessly into the sweet web of memory, as I settle in a meditative posture. I am vaguely aware of the departure of the others, but it is hardly worth remarking. I am alone with my thoughts, with my dreams, with lost hopes.

_Oh, Obi-Wan, how did we come here, you and I? Where, along the path we walked, did we choose the wrong fork? At what point, in my boundless curiosity, did interest become obsession - obsession that would eventually consume us both?_

_You should be here with me now, warm, and breathing and filled with laughter. Instead, I have only this image, so like you and yet, so not. For stone is cold and unyielding and incapable of expressing amusement in the glow of emerald eyes._

A chill touches me, and I wrap my robe more tightly about my body and settle in closer to the stone, soothed somewhat by the rhythmic rush of the nearby water. It is very late, and even the lights of the Coruscant skyline have dimmed marginally.

And I sit in a reverie of memories - of smiles and laughter, of training katas and saber matches, of battles lost and battles won, of walks in alien rain and wading through alien surf. Of all that he was, and all that is lost.

I try to sink deep into meditation, but I lack the necessary tranquility to achieve it, and, finally - emotionally spent - I feel myself slide toward sleep. I am too old, I tell myself, to spend the night on the cold ground of a Temple garden, but I am too weary, after all, to stir myself to move and too loathe to walk away from this roughhewn image.

When I note that the Sanctuary Moon is suddenly midway through its path across the southern skyline, I realize that I am dreaming. Lucid dreaming, I suppose, since I am aware of it, but strangely comforting somehow.

_I open my eyes (in my dream), and there you are, kneeling beside me, just as you must have done thousands of time during our years together. You look at me, and I see that warmth in your eyes, that warmth that no statue - no matter how perfect - will ever capture._

_"You're entirely too old to be sleeping on the ground, my Master." The smile on your lips belies the chiding quality of your words._

_I return the smile. "There was a time when you didn't think I was too old for anything."_

_"Time's change."_

_"Yes, they do. Have you . . ."_

_You laugh softly. "I should pretend I don't know what you're asking. I should make you say it."_

_"But that isn't your way, Padawan mine."_

_Your sigh is soft, wistful. "No, it isn't. And, to answer your question, yes, Master. I have forgiven you. In truth, there is nothing to forgive. You have been true to me, after your own fashion."_

_I lean forward, trying to touch you, but that, it seems, is not allowable. "I miss you, my apprentice. Why didn't you tell me?"_

_"You know why. You would never have allowed it, and there was no other option. Would you have condemned me to live out that barren existence that was the only alternative?"_

_I shudder, and rub my eyes, resisting tears. "I would have had you here, alive and young and beautiful, and at my side."_

_"That was not an option. Even if both of us had survived, we would not . . "_

_I feel a trace of the hurt that rises within you and know what it is that you're not saying. "I would still have left you. That's what you foresaw, wasn't it?"_

_"It doesn't matter, Master. And that isn't why I've come to you."_

_I feel that smile tug at my lips again. You are so perfectly you, and I must have a prodigious talent for lucid dreaming. "Then why have you come, Little One?"_

_Your smile flares brighter than the huge disk of the moon, and there is a small flare of mischief in it. "I come bearing gifts, and begging an indulgence, my Master."_

_"Gifts? You know how I love gifts."_

_"Yes, I know, and the gift is necessary to reinforce the message."_

_I'm not sure what that means, but I nod anyway, and you reach out and drop an object into my open hand - small, rough, warm to the touch. I hold it up to the light of the flame and laugh softly. It is a river stone, similar to the one I laid in your childish hand, so long ago, pale as alabaster and streaked with coral and topaz._

_"If it were real," I say warmly, "I would treasure it always. As it is, I will treasure it until I waken. Now what else, padawan mine?"_

_There is no smile on your face now, as you settle before me; instead, there is a great well of sadness in your eyes, and even I, with my great, insensitive loutish heart, can sense the depth of your love. "You must train the child, Master. There is no one else who can do so, and hold him to the light. That is why it was all necessary. I could not do it; nor can anyone else. Only you, or all is lost. You must do this - for yourself, for the Jedi, for the child . . . for me."_

_I reel back, struggling to pull away from you. "No. You can't ask that of me."_

_"I can, and I do. Your entire life you have done what the Force required of you. You have done your duty, and oh, my Master, the cost has been beyond counting! For you and for me. But you must . . ."_

_"You are just a dream," I insist. "I can't do this. I . . ."_

_"Must I beg, Master? If memory serves, it will not be the first time." And I hear that smiling insolence in your voice at the exact moment when I watch you fall to your knees and look up at me from beneath lowered lashes, knowing, as you always knew, that I could not fail to relent._

_I reach down and, this time, though I know there is nothing there, I sense a slight resistance, a thickening of the air. "Are you . . .happy, my Obi-Wan?"_

_And I watch that smile break in your face, that smile that's brighter than sunrise, and I understand finally that you have achieved in death what I could never give you in life. "Oh, yes, Master. I have found my own paradise. And, one day, when you find your way here, I will be waiting."_

_My breath has grown short and ragged. "It is difficult, without you."_

_"You are the strongest man I've ever known. You can do this; you must do this. Promise me, my Master. Please, promise me."_

_In the end, I can only nod and close my eyes._

When I open them, you are gone, as I knew you would be, and the first rays of the morning sun are flaring on the eastern horizon.

The sculpture is looking at me, different in the rosy tint of dawn - but still perfect.

I rise and feel the stiffness in my joints and muscles and know that he was right. I am too old to sleep in the gardens.

I straighten slowly, and adjust my robes in the hope that I won't look quite so much like I've just spent the night sleeping on the ground, and, with one last caress of that sweet face, I move to the door, knowing that I cannot put off the unpleasant task that lies ahead of me.

It is unfair to Anakin to prolong this. I must . . .

There is an object in my hand that I cannot identify - small, rough, and warm to the touch. A stone, pale as alabaster and streaked with coral and topaz.

I seem to be dropping to my knees a lot lately. I do it again, then rapidly spin back to stare at the sculpture at the center of the garden.

He is smiling at me, and I _know_ it's all an illusion. I _know_ it was all a dream.

But, most of all, I know that I will do what I must, and I will do it just as I promised him.

I will train Anakin.

 

* * * * * * * * *  
tbc


	3. Epilogue

EPILOGUE - the last

No formal announcement has been made, as is customary among the Jedi. Despite the fact that the history of the knighthood is rife with references to ceremonial rites and antiquated rituals, we are actually a somewhat pragmatic group, little given to formality or traditional observances.

The center of the rotunda of the great hall has changed little over the centuries. It has remained unobstructed and open - almost empty - reserved for only one purpose, and so intense is the aura of the Force in this place that even the most gifted among us can only tolerate standing here, at the midpoint of the Force nexus, for very brief periods of time. If the Force were measured like the power generated in a nuclear fusion reactor, this place would register as the white-hot heart of a young star. Indeed, so pure is the life energy that permeates the air here, that the bright drifts of cut flowers that are being brought forward now and arranged so carefully, will live and thrive - unwatered, untended - for as long as they remain undisturbed within this sphere of influence.

It is exquisitely intense, spearing the hearts and souls of all Jedi who approach, and holding them with brutal, unyielding fingers. It is beautiful - as the heart of that star would be beautiful - but it is ultimately blinding, numbing, in its purity. Thus, it does not encourage the Force-sensitive to linger.

Oddly enough, those with no such sensitivity are completely oblivious to its power.

There are a number of such persons among the crowd, which has been gathering for some time now. With or without an announcement, many will come here today. They have not been told, but they know nevertheless. As we all know.

A Jedi has fallen, and we are all diminished by his falling. And I - I am diminished most of all.

I find it ludicrous that it is my right - and my responsibility - to serve as the honor bearer today, as I turn and look up at the great, gleaming, obsidian wall, which has, at this point in our history, grown to assume the shape of a great six-pointed star, each angular segment measuring just over twenty meters in length, and rising almost fifty toward the distant domed ceiling. The surface is as smooth and cool as glass, with the slightly liquid texture of Bithian onyxite, which, due to its frictionless properties, will stand, uneroded and untouched by time, until this Temple, itself, has been reduced to nothing more than a crumbled memory.

The time grows near, but I find myself reluctant to actually move forward and mount the short steps that will take me to the speaker's dais. I'm being silly, of course; this bit of ritual will render him no more dead and gone than he has been all these months.

But it will make his death a formal part of Jedi history, and I am ashamed to admit that I would put it off just a bit longer if I could.

I turn to look over the crowd and realize at once that no such option is going to be allowed. There are far too many present who are convinced that I have already waited too long.

Including, I am forced to admit, my own padawan, who stands so rigidly at my side.

He is, for the moment, the very image of Jedi serenity, as still and emotionless as stagnant water, and I suppress a frown when I realize that I've chosen a metaphor which is not particularly appealing. Anakin may be many things, and many of them I may only have lately been forced to see, but stagnant? Somehow, that implies that there are hidden pockets of thick, opaque miasma, resistant to light and exposure. My thoughts surprise me, but further consideration tells me that they shouldn't. 

It is still difficult for me to admit it, but I know that I must - or admit, instead, that all is lost. Obi-Wan was right, and the Council was right. Anakin is dangerous. Unfortunately, it seems that I was also right; the boy must be trained, and trained by me, and I have now come to understand that I must spend the rest of my life standing vigil over my thoughts.

He is watching me now, as he does almost constantly of late. Since that night in the Discovery Garden. Oh, yes, Anakin is many things, but stupid is not one of them. We have had many discussions since that fateful evening, and he is still less than content with the information I chose to disclose to him. He hungers to pillage my mind, to reach in and take what he wants, but I am still a Jedi Master, and he is still a young apprentice. For now, what he wants is not possible.

And it is my task to make certain that it is never possible, for he can never know the truth in its entirety. 

I will mold him into the Jedi that he must be, to protect the galaxy and the order and the millions of sentient beings and thousands of worlds that depend on the knighthood to preserve and perpetuate peace and justice. He will never turn to the Dark Side; that is my purpose in life, the only purpose I will be allowed to pursue, and I know that, in order to accomplish it, there are certain things he must never understand.

He must believe that he fulfills the prophecy of the Chosen One, that he is the instrument which brings balance to the Force. He must never learn that his Force gifts - formidable as they are - would have been insufficient to sustain him against terrible temptations, except for the willing sacrifice made by one selfless Jedi padawan.

The glory and the recognition will come to Anakin Skywalker; it is unavoidable, and none among us would choose to deny him that which he will enjoy so thoroughly. But the Jedi will always know the truth of it, though few will ever speak it.

The man who fulfilled the destiny of the Chosen One has been dead, lo, these many months. Anakin is no more responsible for the good deeds he will perform, than a paintbrush is responsible for the artistry of the master who wields it.

He will be the tool, and I will be the journeyman who assures that the functions set in motion by that fallen hero continue to their natural conclusion.

Once more, I look over and favor my padawan with an approving smile; he is really being remarkably calm today, but I note something in his eyes that is vaguely disturbing. It can't be that he has learned to penetrate my shielding and pick up on those thoughts; he is too unskilled and undisciplined to do so. Yet, there is some shadow of darkness within him, something that hints of a greater knowledge than he should have gained.

A frown touches my brow, until I draw a deep gasping breath, realizing the truth abruptly - unavoidably. A genuine darkness, it is, but not from the source I am considering. 

It was foolish of me to wonder if he doubts himself; that is something he will never do. His self-assurance is almost limitless. No, the darkness within him does not eat away at his own fundamental persona. It strives, instead, to be released, to focus up and out of himself, to its true target.

Obi-Wan. My current padawan - my living padawan - smiles the sweet, innocent smile of a child and allows all of us who watch him to see exactly what we expect to see, purity and naiveté and youthful exuberance, while he skillfully and deliberately conceals the dark threads that twine throughout his emotions. Anakin hates - and he will always hate - that which, in his perception, he could never achieve. And it matters not in the least that what he believed about Obi-Wan was completely unacquainted with any measure of truth. Truth, for a child, is in the perception.

Anakin, in this one sense, will never truly grow up.

I feel a twist of cold fingers around my heart, as I realize that, just as surely, my task will never be complete. I must serve as a buffer, preserving and perpetuating the vital self-deceptions that the boy needs to allow him to create his own self-fulfilling prophecy.

I allow my eyes to drift closed for a moment and feel a small, rueful smile tug at my lips. _Oh, Padawan mine, is this your idea of poetic justice? Do you find this funny? Are you - laughing at me?_

At first, I dismiss the thought as being unworthy of my sweet-natured Obi-Wan, but then I recall that unquenchable streak of mischief and that sardonic wit that could, occasionally, be downright acerbic, and I'm suddenly not quite so sure.

A quick look around reveals that the crowd continues to grow, and so does the collection of bright blossoms that adorns the base of the great Wall of the Fallen. That's not its official name, of course; I'm not sure it even has an official name. But that's what everyone calls it now, even the members of the Council.

Bright drifts of flowers are strewn along the length of its base now, rainbow-hued, vibrantly alive, sweet symbols of life for one who can no longer enjoy them. As I watch, I note a short, somewhat stocky individual move forward, her demeanor similar to that of a stalking predator, neither asking nor giving any quarter, marching to a determined cadence. In her arms is a garland of riotously brilliant Alderaanian roses, which she places directly beneath the section of the wall which is concealed beneath a silky drape. She remains motionless for a while, kneeling before the gleaming monolith, her head bowed, face concealed by a trembling hand.

I should know better; she'll probably draw a lightsaber and disembowel me, but I can't simply stand and do nothing.

When I reach down and brace her shoulders with my hands, she stumbles to her feet, turning to see who has dared disturb her grief.

And I see that I was not mistaken; she would undoubtedly run me through if she could.

"Come, Mira," I say softly, ignoring her rage. "He would not like seeing you on your knees."

"Since when," she snaps viciously, "do you care what he would like?"

I make no attempt to respond, just stand looking down at her. I am quite stunned when I see a trace of discomfort rise in her eyes. "Let me go, Qui-Gon." The rage has dissipated, only to be replaced with a bottomless wounded grief. "It's time to lay him to rest. Do what you should have done months ago."

"Can you?" I ask, barely audible.

"Can I what?" She doesn't really care what I mean; she's simply responding out of habit.

"Lay him to rest."

Tears well abruptly in tired eyes that have obviously shed far too many like them in recent weeks and months. "Sure," she replies, barely avoiding a sob. "In a few - weeks - or months - or years." She glances up at the wall, and looks back at me, no longer holding on to the anger that she has trusted to sustain her during this ordeal. "What's the point, Master Qui-Gon? When we are required to lose one like this, I see no point in continuing."

"We must bow to the will of the Force, Mira." It sounds trite and meaningless, even as I say it.

She simply shakes her head. "That may work for you, but it's poor comfort for me. I find myself wanting to tell the Force what it can do with its will."

As she moves away from me, to take her place among the spectators, I note another group approaching the wall, a group that appears to be drawing solace and strength from each other. A group of senior padawans, with a few young knights included - Obi-Wan's closest friends and companions.

Bant, with her huge, sad eyes; Garen, still angry, as he will always be, but also stricken anew with grief, his eyes hollow and seeking absolution; Ciara, her delicate complexion almost transparent now, wearing her mourning like a diaphanous cape that mists around her face and steals the color from her features; Padawan Reeft, gaunt and tremulous, unable, I'm told, to even think of eating though he's never had such a problem before; Knight Bryll, reputed to have been my padawan's first lover; Knight M'Rith, renowned partner in padawan mischief. Several others who are familiar but to whom I cannot, at present, attach names.

They support each other as they move forward to drop a huge spray of white and yellow rubelliums at the base of the wall.

They don't linger, and they pointedly avoid looking my way. Even though I know I should not be hurt by their obvious reluctance to face me, I find that I can't quite suppress a twinge of regret. They resent the fact that I live, and he doesn't, and they're right to do so. But oh, my, I will miss the smiles that I am accustomed to seeing on those fresh, lovely faces.

Yet another group moves out into the open area around the wall, and I suddenly don't know if I can endure this. Some pains are simply too intense to be borne.

Younglings - roughly two dozen of them - aged four to ten perhaps. No more than that. They are in a double line, their hands clasped tightly, as three adults move beside them, monitoring both their behavior and demeanor, and the level of their distress. Which is very obvious and becoming more so.

The children are crying, each of them clutching a single blossom, some of them much the worse for wear by this time. As they come to the wall, they simply drop the decidedly imperfect flowers among the lavish blossoms already arranged there. I close my eyes and know - beyond all doubt - that, if he is watching, these bedraggled blooms mean more to him than the studied perfection of all the rest.

I don't know their names, but I recall their faces; faces that would always light up with great joy whenever my padawan arrived in the crèche for one of his frequent visits. In recent years, our time in the Temple was extremely limited, but he never forgot them. Never failed to find the time to spend at least a few minutes among them.

They are quiet in their grief, weeping without wailing, but there is no doubt about the depth of their sadness. It's in their eyes and in the quiver of tiny chins, and I wonder - not for the first time - if maybe the Jedi are guilty of a callous disregard for the sensibilities of the very young in our insistence that they recognize and accept tragedy with Jedi calm and serenity.

Children and serenity seem, somehow, almost oxymoronic to me.

Perhaps it is ultimately unwise to attempt to shield them from the pain of loss, but I speculate that there might be gentler ways of showing them the harsh realities of existence. 

As they turn and move away from the wall, I look up and meet the eyes of Creche Master Lao-Miel and know, beyond doubt, that she shares my misgivings, as one of her charges - a Corellian boy - seven or eight years old, perhaps, breaks away from the group and runs back to throw himself against the wall, his small hands reaching up toward the obscuring banner, his face a mask of perfect misery. 

Though she is more accustomed to impulsive actions of the younglings, I am closer, and less encumbered, so I reach him before Master Lao can free herself from the heartbroken clutches of the other children. As I kneel before him, recognition comes quickly, and takes my breath as memories erupt in my mind. 

Oh, yes, I know this child, would know him from the litany of mumbled words that he is repeating, if for no other reason. He is, so far as I know, the only one who ever called my padawan, "Obi-Mine," and he is almost singing it now, as if repetition could refute the reason for this gathering. 

His name is Jorgal, and he has been something of an escape artist since he was two-years-old. An escape artist who has managed, on numerous occasions, to elude the grasp of crèche attendants and novitiate monitors in order to wander the corridors of the Temple, in search of his favorite person in the entire galaxy. 

I wonder if anyone bothered to keep track of how many times Obi-Wan either found the child - or was found by him - and gently returned him to the initiates' wing, a trip usually made with the little boy perched happily atop the padawan's shoulders. 

"Twenty-eight," a soft, musical voice whispers as I pull the little boy into a gentle embrace. The tiny frame is racked with sobs now, all semblance of Jedi control forgotten and unlamented. 

I look up into Master Lao's face and offer her a weary smile. "Was I broadcasting so loudly?" 

Her eyes are kind, and I'm amazed by how grateful I am to see an expression that holds no trace of condemnation or anger. "You're entitled," she answers, moving to take the boy from me. 

With trembling fingers, I stroke the soft, dark curls that crown the child's head, but my hand freezes abruptly as I note the object she carries attached to her utility belt. I look up at her, and she nods as her hands move to soothe the boy's anguish. "Unless you object," she comments. "It is, after all, your decision, ultimately." 

"No," I reply, studying the tiny face that is only partially buried in her robes. "I think it would please him, and I know it will please me." 

I rise abruptly and move back to my appointed place and find that there are fresh tears rising in my eyes. Tears that express relief, as much as grief, and I allow my gaze to sweep the crowd until I find the individual I seek. 

_You could have told me, you little troll._ I'm not exactly trying to transmit a message to the most honored of all Jedi Masters, but I'm not exactly trying not to, either. 

A slow blink of those great, gleaming eyes reveals that he knows perfectly well what I'm thinking, though he chooses to pretend otherwise. 

He is surrounded by the rest of the Council members, all properly solemn and funereal, and I have an incredible urge to snicker, as I imagine the reaction of my irrepressible lost padawan to such a somber assemblage, this being the same padawan who once referred to the ruling body of the Jedi Order as a 'confederacy of dullards'. 

I close my eyes against a sudden stab of pain, and wonder how I'm ever going to survive even a single day without having recourse to that warm, irreverent wit that could effortlessly and endlessly skewer the pomposity of those who take themselves too seriously, which, according to my Obi-Wan, was almost everyone. 

The hour, it seems, is at hand. I refuse to allow myself another sigh; a Jedi Master should not indulge himself so, and I watch as Master Yoda moves toward me. But a sharp gesture from a figure standing at the front of the crowd draws my eye, and I find myself surprised again, although, once I have a chance to digest the facts, I will probably realize that I shouldn't have been. 

The tall figure hasn't changed much in five years. He still cuts something of a romantic figure, I suppose. I would, of course, never phrase it that way, but Obi-Wan often insisted that it was an appropriate description. A bit more gray at the temple, a few more lines around the eyes, but the gaze is still keen and sharp, the gray-green of the eyes still pure and unclouded, the stance still powerful and encompassing just a trace of swagger. 

Arain Fer'mia, once known simply as the Galactic Ghost and acknowledged as a gun runner, smuggler, and all-around scoundrel, but later recognized and decorated as a hero of the Drimulan resistance, and credited - along with a handful of his companions - with saving the planet from destruction. One of those companions, of course, had been Obi-Wan Kenobi, later officially declared a Hero of the Drimulan Federation. 

Heady stuff for a Jedi padawan. Or rather, for most Jedi padawans. For Obi-Wan, it had been more of an embarrassment than anything else, especially when his friends had heard about it and begun a campaign of merciless teasing which expressed itself in any number of ways, the most annoying of which - for Obi-Wan - had been the actions of the females in his peer group, who adopted a practice of repeatedly throwing themselves at his feet, batting their eyelashes (or whatever analog of eyelashes the non-human contingent had) and sighing (loudly), "My hero!" 

It went on for months, much to my padawan's chagrin. 

All of this flashes through my mind in an instant, as my eyes lock with those of the Drimulan freedom fighter who, I suspect, loved my apprentice almost as much as I did. He nods at me, but his eyes are hooded, and I can glean no indication of the emotions behind them. But, then again, perhaps I need no such clues. Captain Fer'mia has never bothered to conceal the fact that he is not exactly my biggest fan. And now, I stand here as a survivor. That, I sense, may be my greatest sin of all, from Fer'mia's perspective. 

What right have I to live, when another does not? 

I wonder if the Drimulan knows that I agree completely. 

As Master Yoda reaches the steps below the dais, a murmur rises among the bystanders, as they notice that another figure, roughly the same size as the wizened Master, has moved forward, at the urging of crèche Master Lao-Miel. 

I heave a deep, shaky breath. I have been hoping that this would happen, but I couldn't know for sure as the final decision resided, as always, with the Council. Now that I see that it will come to pass, I wonder if I can see it through. There is no real choice, of course; I must do what I must do, for him. But, oh, my Obi-Wan, I'm not so sure I have the strength to face this. 

I am entirely too swept up in the might-have-beens engendered by the moment. 

Little Jorgal is performing admirably; though his chin continues to tremble, and the gleam in his dark eyes is unmistakable. He is walking with his head held high, as befitting a Jedi initiate, and the object draped across his outstretched arms sways gently in time with his motion. 

It is a coil of triple-stranded rope, roughly a meter in length, braided sections of gold, silver, and copper strands, interwoven with a series of carved beads and slender, gossamer ribbons. It is not, of course, anything like the human hair it is meant to approximate, but, as a symbol, it is adequate. 

The real thing, of course, was reduced to ash in the molten heat of the pit of a Theed power station. 

The boy comes to stand before me and looks up with tear-swollen eyes, desolation carving lines of grief into his sweet face. He holds the metallic braid carefully, extending it toward me, managing, somehow, to calm himself to complete stillness. 

In the course of my lifetime, I have called my lightsaber to my hand more times than I could ever remember, and it has always been done without thought or even volition. Until now. I find that my fingers feel coarse and clumsy as I pull the sleek cylinder from my belt and stroke the emerald blade to life. 

I await the ritual words. 

I can do this. I can. Can't I? 

"Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi," intones Master Yoda, "lost to us but cherished by the Force, confer on you the rank of Jedi knight, the Council does. A place among the echelons of fallen heroes, you have earned." 

With a quick flex of my wrist, I sever the metallic braid, and retrieve the two ends immediately, assuring that the child is never threatened by the molten edges of the cut surface. 

I nod my approval to the boy, and he turns and flees, his Jedi composure exhausted by the anguish in his heart. 

As the final step of the knighting ceremony, I bow to Master Yoda then move to a small stone pit that is set into the base of the mourning wall. If the braid in my hands had been the actual padawan braid worn by my apprentice, I would have had the option of keeping it for myself, allowing him to keep it, or destroying it in the ritual manner. Since the metallic braid is no more than a symbol of that lost memento of his childhood, I see no point in treating it as a keepsake. 

"Master," says Anakin suddenly, eyes wide and solemn, "may I?" 

I hesitate, and know that I dare not continue to do so, or all will be lost before it is even begun. Within me, a primal voice is screaming that he should not be allowed to do this, that it grants him a victory he has not earned, and it matters little that it is a victory only in his own mind. It feels like a betrayal, that he should be allowed to destroy this vestigial symbol of what Obi-Wan was. 

The voice in my mind is suddenly bright and sharp - and full of laughter. _"Master, it's a piece of rope. Let him have his symbolic victory."_

I drop the pieces of metallic braid into the stone crucible as I nod at my apprentice and step back. 

His saber blade flares to actinic brilliance, the color of dark jade, and he thrusts it eagerly into the stone pit, his face alight with grim satisfaction as the heat of the laser disintegrates the plaited metal. 

He smiles and glances up at me, but the shadows settle quickly back in his eyes. Did he really believe he would achieve some kind of satisfaction with such a simple act of hostility? He knows better now, and, even more alarming, he knows that I know what motivated him. 

This brief moment is dedicated to remembering a fallen knight; Anakin remembers him all too well, but, unfortunately, the knight he remembers never really existed. 

Will he ever understand that? I think not, and add another layer of mental and emotional shielding. I am disappointed in the petty malice that is so flagrant in his demeanor, and even more disappointed in myself to recognize that the flaw was a part of him from the moment I first met him; I simply chose not to see it. 

Now, I must not only see it; I must find a way to eradicate it. 

The gentle laughter comes again. _"No, my Master. You must find a way to manipulate it, a task for which there are few who are better suited."_

I reserve my comment about cheeky padawans to myself. 

Everything is suddenly very still, and I feel, in the midst of this rather impressive crowd, that I am completely alone, standing at the base of this great monument, and moving forward very slowly, almost as if this were a dream. 

No, not a dream. A nightmare, from which I would give my soul to be able to awaken. 

I will make no speeches today; nothing that I could say could come close to expressing what this loss means to the Jedi. There are too few of us already; we cannot afford to lose the best and brightest among us. 

I reach up and pull the dark drape away from the face of the gleaming wall, and let it fall to the mosaic swirl of the floor, forgotten. 

It is not more real; it is _not_. But it feels that way, nevertheless. 

It feels as though some malevolent spirit simply reached out and took away my capacity for self-delusion. 

He is not sleeping; he is not simply away on a mission; he is not absent from the Temple; he is not merely unavailable; he is not playing one of his silly pranks, waiting for the ideal moment to expose himself. 

He is dead, and no amount of rationalizing his passing as a journey into the Force changes the fact that he is forever beyond our reach. 

The inscription carved into the obsidian surface is brief and pungent, as it should be. 

_Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi._  
_Struck down in honorable conflict._  
_"Nobility may be best defined_  
_By what one chooses not to do."_

Appropriately, the verse is one of his own. He wrote it, I believe, quite some time ago. Did he know then, I wonder. Or did he - somewhere deep within his soul - always know? 

I find that I cannot, for the moment, face those who mourn, or those who don't; those who loved him, or those who didn't; those who have forgiven me, or those who never will. 

I walk away, feeling the self-centered hurt radiating off my padawan, the sparks of anger flashing around many in the crowd, the concerns of Jedi Masters, the bewildered anguish of those who have not yet come to terms with reality. 

I will care again, soon. I will make amends. I will find a way to soothe the torturous concerns of my troubled apprentice, and smooth his path to enable him to navigate through the turmoil that awaits him. 

But not this minute. Not right now. 

Right now, I need to go back to that quiet garden. I need to see that face, and wait in silence, hoping that gentle spirit will come forward and touch me again. 

As I kneel there, wrapped in a serenity that I have not managed to achieve in a very long time, my hand caresses the tiny stone concealed in a compartment of my belt. 

I need to give him one last message. 

_"Rest in peace, my beloved padawan. You have earned your paradise, and someday, I hope, when I have earned mine, I will join you there."_

FINIS


End file.
